Dribblingwitt????

2008-07-03T17:58:00.013-04:00

I remember my first communion, I was about eleven years old, standing up here, nervous as I could be, as I had been given the task of reading a passage for our graduating group. I remember being a nervous, gawky gal, looking out in this very large congregation, I had almost lost nerve, and as I paused at the paulpet, I looked out and wavered a bit, and then I spotted Gran. She was so proud, so noble, so at peace, so serene, as she was so at home ,in this church, and surrounded by her family and through her stance, maybe her smile, it gave me courage to make the reading.

And here I am now, at the very paulpet, in the very same church, a church filled with love, in which would bring her most comfort and peace.

But today I stand without her smiling, loving face, to guide me forward...

But as I look out at this congregation, I realize, in my heart, it is here, it will always be here, it is in the faces of all who she loved. And for this, my heart, just as yours, should find solace.

My Name is Pendullum and I am the eldest grand daughter of Margaret Patricia Dribblingwitt. Or simply, Patsy, to her friends.

I have been given the great honour to write a eulogy for my grandmother.

A eulogy, when I looked up its true meaning was that of a speech in which we give praise of a person. And this puts me in a quandary, as to write a speech about my Gran, I would almost insist that you pull out a cushion, make yourself comfortable and hear a yarn of a truly wonderful matriarch who had quite the journey on these eighty seven years on this planet.

And to know my Gran, was to love my Gran.

And I would love to go back and talk of her growing up in Northern Ireland in County Down with her brothers and sisters, and of her Mammy and Da' . But I could never do it justice, as we really need her beautiful voice to tell the tale. We would also need to know the lay of the land, the smell of the air and if there was a breeze or wind blowing. We would need to hear of all the beautiful details of the fabric of the story. As it is in the telling, in which makes a true story.

I would love to tell the story of how she met her dear Paddy, my grandfather. How she met him at a dance.I would tell you how they went to four dances together, four dances which were held in the evening, before he asked her to a picnic on a beautiful, lush, sunny day. She would talk of how she was smitten,she would say of how she fancied him.
And then she would tell of her horror at the picnic...Then, in her tale, she would pause for dramatic effect, raise her eye brow, have a sip of tea, and then she would make certain she had eye contact and your undivided attention.

Her horror on this beautiful, warm, sunny, perfect afternoon day.

Was it the wind?

Nay, it was not the wind?

Was it the rain?

No, we already established it was a beautiful, sunny day.

Was it the fact that Paddy forgot to pack an essential piece for their picnic?

Maybe the blanket?

Was it, that Paddy was rude?

No, No, he was kind and ever so thoughtful and he had the best sense of humour and was fun.
He was perfect and that was the problem.

Now, how can this be a problem you may ask?

Well, Patrick John Dribblingwitt had the misfortune of being born with the most beautiful, green, Irish laughing eyes.

Now, if you are at a loss, you may not of known the point and the point is this:

My grandmother was intensely supersticious. An itchy nose was a certainty of a fight or a kiss by a fool, so she always shook your hand, thereby the fight would not be with her.She would always tell you with great certainty that if your dropped a fork a woman was coming over for an unexpected visit. A pair of new shoes on the table was a certainty of the worst fight imaginable.

But my grandmother's main golden superstition was about the Irish and green. She believed you should never wear green, especially if you were Irish, For the wee faery folk do not take too kindly if ya are wearing green, as they liked to play mischief with those who did.

And with the lead up to a perfect picnic, she told of her quandary.

'Pendullum, you can not stop seeing a man for the colour of 'is eyes.'

I like to believe this story showed how much she loved him, as she married him. She married him in spite of his beautiful green, green, laughing Irish eyes.

You have heard the story I am certain, of their wedding day and how Father Boyd who married this young couple, gave them a blessing of saying 'May you see your children's children's children.'

And with telling the story, as she often did, she would pause and say, 'Aye, I am blessed. I have, indeed, seen my children's children's children'.

And weren't they just the apple of her eye?

She truly loved her family.

She would often have tales of her life in Ireland with her boys,she would always refer to people with the pronoun Our. Our 'arry, Our 'Liam, Our Anthony, Our Martine.

And when I had written my Great Uncles all those years ago and asked what they remembered of Paddy and Patsy's home both brothers said the house was filled with love and endless laughter. I believe, no greater compliment could be paid of a family.

And Gran was a true storyteller, a story teller from a long impressive list of storytellers, not the least her Da. Gran was a storyteller, it was in her blood. She had her first taste when she was thirteen writing for the Newry Reporter and by the time she was in her fifties it was a polished artform.

When you went to visit her on Arthur Street you would be enveloped in love. You would be greeted by the warmest smile, her eyes would twinkle with delight. You would have to sit right next to her, on her left hand side, as her ashtray and her her provisions for the visit would be on her right. A pot of tea or two would be brewed,and you were to stay and tell of your news and to hear of hers and of the past. You would hear a story or two or twenty.

And as you sat, she would have you. And she would not let go, a hand on your arm, a face turned directly to you, with all her energy focussed upon your very being... She basked in 'the moment' shared. As it was a moment and she truly saw it as such.

And as you visited after the second pot of tea would be brewed, and then a meal. And when you thought there could be no more talk there would be the offering of chocolate; a sherry. And you knew how special you were, as these were items to be savoured, just as a good lottery ticket, or a new jar of Oil of Olay.

And the Past year a great deal was taken from my grandmother. She suffered. Goodness, how she suffered. And one would think that she was being 'tested'. She was in so much pain and discomfort.

But through it all, through each trial, I would marvel at how she was always kind, always polite, she never cussed or swore, she never forgot her manners. She was poked and proded, she always said please and thank yous for any act of kindness, her face always lit up with any of her family walked into her room at the hospital. We were like a vision of complete happiness in her days of extreme hardship.

But alas, the stories became no more. The delight of a taste of sherry was a thing of the distant past and chocolate but a distant dream.

And watching her, you had to marvel at the fortitude as she never lost her faith. And you wished her Godspeed for her to join her Mammy,her Da' her brothers and sisters and her Paddy with his beautiful, green, laughing, Irish eyes, as you did not want her to suffer anymore.

And when you looked at her, you had much time to reflect. Through that time, there was time to have made to have given thanks for her,to her. You gave thanks to have been given the blessing of knowing her, to have heard of some of her stories, to have heard her laughter, to know that all of us are better people for having known her, to have known her witt, to have known her love of song and to have known her stories.

I know in my heart she is the cornerstone to who I am today.

She is an intergral part of all who are in this church today. I can hear her voice in all of her children, in the way they can tell a story, how all inherited a love of a good story, and I can hear it in my cousins as they tell a yarn. It's in our blood, it's in our history, It's in our history with Margaret Patricia Dribblingwitt.

And in this time, I would just like to sing the praises of Margaret Patricia Dribblingwitt and thank her for the great visit and we all look forward to the tea, the sherry, the chocolates and the stories when we see her again.

Thank You.

Love You Gran,
Your Always,
Loving Grand Daughter,
Pendullum

2008-04-25T17:44:00.016-04:00

He'll Always Be Seven to me...

I was born with the face I have now.

My mother suffers from the same type of face. If you knew her in kindergarten chances are you would recognize her today.Life with all its forces have not altered the 'look' of my mother, no matter the course of her life, her face remains the same. My mother's face, though more weathered, is still that of primary school, I have the same scourge.

My siblings, as my father, do not face the same woe, their faces have altered through the years, their faces, somehow through time, their faces have evolved, have transformed, their childhood pictures, do not seem to reflect the people they metamorphized into today...They have grown into their faces, through time, and one would truly have to pause and search their refined features to recognize them from their gawky days of childhood and teen years.

I guess the best way to illustrate this would be through the Beatles. Bare with me in this illustration...

John, Paul and George, changed through the years, their young faces from the fifties, with their greased back hair, changed with the Beatle hair cuts, and slowly altered even still in the seventies and one would have to take pause, when identifying the three from their past unto the seventies...

But not with Ringo... No matter what the era, no matter what the 'look' of the day was, Ringo looked; as Ringo does today. There would be no problem pointing out with certainty Mr. Ringo Starr.

I have the face of Ringo. Time tested and true. You can always spot Ringo no matter how much he ages, just as you could spot me.

A plight that some of us have to face, but I suppose there could be worse.

Of course, this face is going to take you on a wee bit of a journey.

I will brings you along with me as I venture onto the subway. A day like any other...

I am riding along the subway emersed in my wonderful, inner world with a conversation of things 'to do' swirling in my head when a gorgeous man strides onto the train. He has shoulder length, dirty blond, wavy hair, he is wearing great fitting jeans with a funky weathered belt, washboard stomach and these fantastic biker boots along with a knap sack slunk over to one shoulder. He is relaxed and calm with himself and the course of his day. He has a truly charming smile. He smiles as he sits across from me. I smile back and go back to my inner world with the aid of reading the advertisements above the gentleman's head.

And when I look down again, I notice that he is still smiling at me.

A sheepish smile, but a smile nonetheless.

I smile back, and lower my eyes to show my embarrassment for the attention.

And then he stands and meanders across the train and stops in front of me.

I look at the great boots and slowly scan up, pass the belt, the washboard stomach, pass the pecs,pass the cool necklace, and stop at the friendly smiling face.

'Excuse me, but are you Pendullum Dribblingwitt?'

'Yeeess?' I reply. I answer more in the vein of a question, as I have no idea how, this gorgeous Adonis, would know my name.

And then he pauses with my answer. And looks at me with hopeful eyes, a glimmer of familiarity floats through their sparkle.

He repeats my name again with conviction, 'Pendullum Dribblingwitt... Well, I'll be....'

Now, I am getting a tad embarrassed and uncomfortable with the fact that this man knows me, and I have not a clue who he is, and I am also aware that everyone on the subway is watching our drama unfold as this man certainly controls the car by his very presence.

'Pendullum, It's me, Alan Rubinchko.'

'Alan Rubinchko?' I repeat looking for clarification through saying the name again. Slowly, carefully, annunciating each syllable of his name, hoping to find him, and our connection through the pronunciation and projection of his name. And through this dance, I am buying my memory; time. Time to mingle with my brain and find Alan Rubinchko in the dusty, webbed-corridors of my cluttered mind.

He, at least is gallant enough to see that his name, even with the greatest of concentration on each syllable is not bringing any kind of connection to me.

He is not unnerved by the vacant smile before him. He decides upon sitting beside me, so, he can give me eye contact and maybe through the persuasion of his eyes I may be transfixed to a memory as he clearly remembers me.

He settles beside me and says ' I sat behind you, Mrs. May's class.'
'Mrs. May's class... That was when? '
'Grade Two'
'GRADE TWO?'
'Yeah, Grade two'

Okay, my memory and my brain can work with that....But boy, that was a lifetime ago... And boy this will take a great deal of needling between the memory and the ole brain...

They converse and then...

Magically, I am teleported back, I can see the classroom, the dimly lit classroom, the beautiful penmenship of Mrs. May on the board, the children working quietly, I am being poked from behind, and the boy behind me is drawing attention to his latest project, he is tossing his pencil up into the air to have it join the half a dozen other pencils he has stuck to the ceiling, I can see Mrs. May surveying her class, I can hear her shrill scream, I can hear her fury....

ALAN RUBINCHKO!!!! COME HERE!

And then it all truly comes back. Alan Rubinchko with the thick, thick glasses, Alan Rubinchko with the black and beige pocket protector in his white oxford shirt. Alan Rubinchko with the spindly body which carried baggy flood pants sinched together with a thin black belt, black socks and white adias running shoes. Alan Rubinchko always laughing and finding new projects in tormenting Mrs. May. Alan Rubinchko always at the front of the class for some mischief he had gotten himself into. Alan Rubinchko always finding some kind of delight spontaneous commotion, much to Mrs. May's dissatisfaction and all of our delight.

And here was an Adonis before me, certainly not a spindly body, and not a pocket protector or coke bottle glasses in sight...

I scramble and now repeat his name, with conviction having found the man in the name.'Ah, Alan Rubinchko, it has been a lifetime... Geez hasn't it?'

'Pendullum Dribblingwitt, you have not changed a bit. Not ONE bit!'

Thanks, I guess... Well, Alan, you certainly have.

'Well, yeah, most people change... But Holy Crow, you have not! Geez, I could spot you anywhere....' And his voice cracks as it would when we were kids. And now he can relax, as he is not insane and he does indeed know me, and now the 'work' is in my court.

'So Alan,' I gasp, as this Adonis before me is slowly transforming a mixture of the Adonis but definitive tinges of a wee boy of seven years of age with black socks and floods.

'Alan, well, what are you doing with yourself?'

And with this, he laughs with reassurance. He pulls his shoulders back, regains his amazing posture, looks directly in my eyes and charmingly says with a flirtation twinkle to his eye... 'Well, Pendullum, I am a male stripper now.'

'Ahh... Uhhh??? You're stripping?'

'Yeah, Really, great money... Amazing money in fact. A lot of women like to see men naked.'

'You are a stripper?'

'I guess Mrs. May gave me a taste of what it was like to be always on stage.'

' Yeah, but you were clothed... And detention never had music...A stripper.' I now say with conviction trying to coax my memory, to let go of an image of Alan of the past and of the black socks and wirey legs and knobby ankles.

Somehow Alan with the pocket protector, the thick glasses with black rims, the floods, the black socks and running shoes are now just all before me and my mind's eye. My memory will not let go.

'Yeah.... Pendullum, you should come and see me some time. There's always a line up, but here's my card. This will let you in no prob. and you don't have to pay the cover. I could take you out to dinner or something. Get caught up...'

And with that statement wavering. My stop arrives on cue.

I say my quick good byes, collect my things and exit with his stripper card in hand.

I wave goodbye as the train pulls away.
He smiles and gallantly waves.

And then glance down at his card as the train is out of sight and I am walking up the stairs.

ALAN the Carpenter. Chip N Dales.

And I know I will never use the card.

I will never go and see the Studded Carpenter because to me, to me, he will always be Alan Rubinchko, a young seven year old boy with black socks and a pocket protector....

And I will always be the young girl who sat in front of him.

2008-03-17T13:38:00.005-04:00

It's All In the Way You Look At Things....

Mr. Thompson died.

He died as he had lived.

He stayed the course and was true.

Everyday he instructed his twenty five year old son to shave his face, to brush his hair and make him presentable so that he may face the day.

Everyday, his son took this task as an honour and a great privilege.

Everyday, though bedridden in a hospital, was a brand new day with infinite possibility.

Everyday, Mr. Thompson lived. Everyday Mr. Thompson savoured his moments left on this planet.

Everyday there would be a line up of people coming to say 'Good-Bye' to Mr. Thompson.

Everyday, his room would be filled with laughter, and wonderful, reflective, warm conversation, as cancer ate away at Mr.Thompson's body,But cancer could not and would not take away his giving spirit.

Mr. Thompson's room was filled with countless cards, countless photographs and countless moments of people retracing their paths with him, retracing moments of true friendship with a learned friend and colleague.

Mr. Thompson made cancer a dignified experience.

Mr. Thompson held court. And taught people how to live, through his passage. He made cancer easy. He never mentioned cancer, he wanted to hear your news, and share a moment, cancer was not part of it. He was lying in a hospital bed, unable to move from the neck down, but this, 'affliction', this 'insideous disease'(as Mr. Thompson put it) would not define him.

I was due to see Mr. Thompson on the day he passed.

I had printed out my blog, as a letter and was going to go up to see my dear teacher.

It was not meant to be. Mr. Thompson died before I could read my story to him. But I was not in want.

I had already told him how much he meant to me so many times. I already poured out my gratitude before the illness. And through the illness, I had the chance to give him a kiss on the cheek and tell him I would miss him and our lunches. I had the chance to meet his wonderful wife and his great grown children. I was able to share my moments with Mr. Thompson, with them. And they could see another side to their father. As one's life is never just one defining moment, it comes in so many arrays and pieces that make up a person. I was glad I could bring one of the many facets of Mr. Thompson's life to them while he was still alive.

Cancer gave me that, as much as it took away my friend.

I was at peace, as I knew that Mr. Thomspon however brave, would not want this illness to linger and for this fuss to be longer that it needed to be.

And so Mr. Thompson had his 'wish'. And so, I was not at a loss, with his passing and leaving us behind.

But I knew his friend was. His friend of thirty years could not think of his years ahead without his trusted friend. He was in total despair. The past was of no comfort.

I forwarded on my letter to Mr. Thompson, to his grieving friend. I forwarded on my letter, to my ole gym teacher. I forwarded it on so that he may realize that we were unified in grief. And somehow, I felt the letter would bring comfort to him. If for a moment it may bring his dear Leon back to him.

And my dear, sweet, primary school, gym teacher could not open it. It could or would not bring his beloved Leon back and he was emmerced in his grief. And at the visitation, in the funeral home, he could barely look my way without tears. His heart was not allowing him to let go.

And where I was able to talk with Mr. Thompson's family and friends, Jim, my ole school teacher could not.

And in the wee hours of the morning before the funeral, I went to my computer to get the final details of Mr.Thompson's arrangements, and as I logged on, I received a phone call from my gym teacher, Jim. Jim had been waiting until I 'logged on and was awake before he called.

Jim called and cried.

' Pendullum, Pendullum, I, I,' he sobbed, ' I read your e-mail yesterday. I read your e-mail. And I, I, oh, gosh, I did something...'

'What did you do?'

'Oh, Pend, you have to understand, we have had weeks of this... Weeks to prepare for this funeral, and we have been trying and trying....'

'Trying to do what?'

'We've been trying to write Leon's eulogy.'

'Oh...'

'And we finished it early last night...'

'Well, that's good...'

'No, no it's not...'

'Okay, it's not...'

'I read your e-mail late last night... And there, there was Leon...There, he was... And well, I forwarded on your e-mail as the official eulogy to be read by Barry... I am so sorry... I should have asked you first... And now I am calling you... Could we???'

'I would be honoured... Truly, I would be honoured...'

And with that, my letter was read to Mr. Thomspon as he lay in his casket.

My letter was read to a congregation of three hundred plus mourners. Three hundred people who were blessed to have known and had shared part of their journey through life with Leon Thompson.

And as it was read, there was a great deal of laughter, there was a great deal of light. For this funeral was indeed a celebration. A celebration of how very lucky all of us were to have met such a wonderful man. We were so lucky he was part of our lives for a brief, glimmering moment.

And near the end of the service, Leon's ninety year old, spritely, mother-in-law, leapt to the pulpet...

She surged forward with an bouyant energy, an energy which could not be contained, an energy which catapulted her petite, wirey frame, to the front of the church, it seemed to take her by surprise as she stabilized herself by clutching large black patent leather handbag and cane...

She reached the front and belts, ' I am compelled to speak! I need to speak, I need to have MY say!!!!'

And with the confidence of a matriarch she marches in front of all the flowers and announciates Leon's name.
LEEEEEONNN THOMPSON! LEEEEEONNN THOMPSON!!!!

She turns to the casket and lovingly touches the box, she pauses and places her handbag and cane beside the coffin, she turns to face all of us and then opens her arms wide, raises them above her head to the heavens and exhalts to the entire congregational body.

'My son-in-law, my son-in-law, Leeeeoooon, was all about L.O.V.E....He was LOVE...
To know Leon, is/was to love Leon...
One of the kindest souls, I have ever had the pleasure to have met!
I have always loved Leon. And now, Leon is watching over us, and for once, for once we are without our master of ceremonies... But his voice is within all of us...We are all truly blessed to have been loved by Leon Thompson.'

And with those words, it caused me to smile. It caused me to laugh. It caused me to feel so very, very happy as he would have been so embarrassed with such an announcement... But silently proud. It 's all how you can look at these things...

And at the end of the funeral, Mr. Thompson had planned a huge sit down luncheon where we could all sit and mingle and remmenice. We laughed, we joked, we even marvelled that Leon ensured that there were endless cakes, as he so had a sweet tooth. And we felt as though he was watching from above, happy with how we were all getting along and bringing him into the room with our stories.

And when I came home, there was my beautiful family waiting for me...

They knew of all that I have had with Mr. Thompson and all that I seemed to have lost.

But life has a great deal to hold.

And through the knowing of Mr. Thompson and of his love, I know that all is possible.I have a certain set of roots thanks to him. I have a sense of telling a story all the way though. I have a sense of his laugh and twinkle of faith in my heart.

It is all in how you look at these things...

And through all these moments where my heart has been tested, there has always been something life reaffirming. There has always been gratitude in my heart for all that I have experienced with some truly remarkable people.

They may have gone, and there certainly is a true feeling of dysphoria in my heart, but only because I know of the lives they have lived and have shared with me. And I am certain, I am who I am today because their stories, their beings,their life experience are within my heart even though their bodies have left this fair planet. I am a far better person for knowing and loving them while they were here, I suppose it is all how you look at it.

2008-02-21T14:00:00.016-05:00

Dear Mr. Thompson,

I have just returned from seeing you for what I think will be the last time, although your memories and gifts of friendship will fill my heart forever.

It was hard to enter the room.

It was even harder to leave.

The drive home with your broken-hearted friend; a fog.

It was hard to remind your friend, of thirty years, to stay focussed on the fact that you are still here: for a brief glimmering moment, and to take the finite time, to retrace some glorious memories spent, before you silently leave.

My heart is sad for what will be lost.

And while I contemplate what will be lost, I want to tell you what I have through you.

I was so fortunate to have you as my grade five teacher. I think of you in your powder blue suits, your gold glasses,your marvellous Gyanese accent and the sound of your melodic laughter. I think of eyes with compassion and a strong self assured person who could command thirty, crazy, high-strung kids, with the greatest of ease.

Grade five was a blessing. Your class was a reflection of you. I loved how you would start our day with a current events story. Everyday, you would pull down the map point to the country in question and talk, lecture about the events of the day it was all so fluid, so spontanious, so rich. You knew so much. You never talked down, or looked down, you always opened up horizons and borders, enlightened us about countries and traditions abroad. We would sit on the carpet and marvel at how what would appear to be a 'simple news' story brought in by a student, could and would be so much grander in its ramifications on the world's stage.

I loved how you found humour in your disciplining the 'rabble rousers'. I loved how you had a rubber billyclub that you nick named 'The Persuader'. I loved that you would pull out from under your desk, and with a walk of a king, you would hit the bully club in the palm of your hand for dramatic effect, and while it squeaked you would walk over to the rabble rouser and stand over the offending body. You never hit anyone, but that Persuader always had kids in fits of laughter when the Persuader had to be called upon.

I remember on the day you became a legend, when you saw John Betley get ready to send a spit ball over to Ricky Collins, the Persuader was pulled out, we all marvelled at how you 'knew' what was about to happen even though you had never looked up from your desk and Ricky Collins swallowed the spitball rather than admit that he was indeed a rabble rouser.

A great deal was learned in your class, far beyond the three R's. Your classes were great lecture halls, you encouraged minds to explore, you encouraged respect for others, you taught that we all had social responsibility to each other and the community.

I loved it when you had 'yard duty'. Ingrid, Maria and I, would love these times as we would hang out with you in the school yard, follow you around and hear your opinions on our concerns and fears.

I loved the fact that you gave us gangly gals; us oddballs; the monniker of 'Leon's Angels' and through this monniker we felt so special, so important, and so loved.

I adored how you would sing 'Maria' from Westside Story, to Maria. Whenever I hear that song, I am instantly brought back to the ole schoolyard and your beautiful voice and how it was sung with a smile of the heart. A time of true happiness with a fun, compassionate, caring, teacher.

Ever so often when I walk through the my old school grounds I can envision you standing in your beige parka holding court.

I loved how you stood up for what was 'right and just'. You always were a believer in education. No child was ever left behind. No child was lost in the masses. I can marvel at the fact some thirty year later, during our lunches, you can tell me every single one of your students strong suits. You could even tell me the profession of some of your students through intuition, you were never wrong. I was always so surprised at how we all mattered.

After your Leon's Angels moved on to post secondary education, you were promoted, and then promoted again, and again, to where you were one of the big cheese's of education. You were always a humble person. You were always true to your profession and calling. You never lost sight of the task at hand and that was the education of children. And even when you retired you still helped with literacy, how you still volunteered your time to teach children so that they may reach their true potential. How lucky and fortunate those children were to have you by their side.

You were a great man who gave many a child wings so that they may go forward and add to the world. Everyone has something to give, sometimes a child may need a bit more time to see it. And you always made the time through gentle persuasion, to open a child's heart up when they were discouraged and to bring them back to the books to enlighten their souls.

You were a favourite by many, as you did see light in all of us no matter how foggy it may have seen to us at the time..

I was so blessed for that fact that we reconnected five years ago. I have loved our lunches together as adults. I have adored the time with you and Wayne and Bill. Who would have thought that I would have the honour of being a friend to my grade five and six teacher, as well as my gym teacher? It strangely felt like family. It always felt like I was meeting with my 'oddball uncles'. I loved how you would meet me around Scooter's schedule. Always in my neck of the woods, I loved how all of you had a vested interest in my daughter and of my stories of our beleaguered school system. I loved how you 'knew' Scooter through me. And how when I told you of the story of Scooter's race, you laughed, gave that all knowing look you could give, and reassured me that 'Scooter is just like her mom as a kid.'

I loved the friendship. I cherished it. And I loved the wee notes you would send of encouragement, they were always filled with great wisdom and insight. You were always so supportive to me in all my endeavours.

And now, Mr. Thompson, I am so sorry you are leaving us.

I am so sorry for all that the world will lose in your passing. A true hero. A true educator, who gave wings and futures to so, so many.

I am so sorry that we will not have another lunch together.

I am so very happy, blessed and honoured that you were my friend and my teacher.

You were one of a kind.

And you have left your mark with so many and for that I should feel blessed, and I truly do.

But at present, I find it hard to get beyond the loss of you as I leave you behind in the hospital.

So with all due respect Mr. Thompson,( I could never call you Leon, as much as you berated me to) in all due respect Mr. Thompson. I shall miss you.

But for whatever it means, you gave me wings, Mr. Thompson.

You made me part of who I am today.

You taught me a great deal when I was a kid, you continued to teach and support me as an adult.

I thank you, thank you, the earth has lost a true angel, Mr. Thompson.

And God's Speed, dear friend.

The heavens certainly will welcome you with open arms, as you certainly helped a great many spirits, soar.

2007-10-25T12:06:00.000-04:00

I believe in Angels.

I believe in beauty.

I believe in the spirit and energy of my fellow man.

I believe that we have angels who walk amongst us.

And if we are lucky, truly lucky, we see them, and appreciate our moments with them.

I believe angels come in all shapes and sizes, in all ages, in all colours, in all creeds. There is beauty all around us. And sometimes we just need a wee reminder of that fact when we can be caught up in moments which truly do not matter, and petty problems that can cause us to lose heart. Negative moments, actions, or inactions, which can seem to matterso greatly at the time, and which can cause momentary angst, but really does not weigh in, with the catachism of the soul.

I believe that angels can make your heart soar to the heavens, and remind and comfort your soul to know that there is greatness in everyone. And sometimes these Angels can lead you gently back to yourself and remind you of the beauty in your world in which you live.

You do not need to go on vacation to an exotic destination to experience the heavens, a great deal of the time it can be found through your own back door.

I believe miracles and beauty truly happen without fan fare. And sometimes, we are just too busy to see...

And then there are times when we can just stand in awe.

And be grateful...

A few weeks ago,my daughter, Scooter was going to a track meet. She, now ten, was preparing to run with a bunch of girls, she was going to have the sun on her face, and the wind to her back, on a beautiful fall day. It truly can not get better than that. A track meet with a great deal of the grade fives from my city... But as she was preparing, it brought out the notalgia in me.
It brought me back to my younger Scooter.

It brought me back to when Scooter was all of six years of age, and was going to her first track meet ever in the park. It was a perfect day for a run in the park. It was a perfect day to be six and to be running with your friends through the autumn leaves.

And when my wee gal lined up with all the girls and the starter pistol blared, my heart skipped with pride, as she darted through the pack. But then, Scooter saw a leaf fall from a heavens, a magnificent, beautiful, red, leaf, with a touch of green and yellow, and the way the sun hit the leaf, it caused my wee gal to stop in her tracks and watch the magnitude of it all, and when it landed she had to pick it up as such a gift from the heavens had to be shared. And off she ran to pick up the leaf, and as she did this, an old friend, or as old of a friend as you can have, when you are six years old, saw Scooter, and called her name from the side lines.

Scooter, who if anything, is a social butterfly ran over to her friend, embraced her,and gave her friend, the gift of the magical leaf. My husband could not believe his eyes, here all the children, were running around our daughter, as she caught up with her old friend.

"Scooter!' He cried,'Run!'

And Scooter heard her father's command, and explained to her friend that she 'had to go' and off she ran to catch the pack of running six/seven year olds.

And Scooter ran and ran... She caught up with the pack.

And when it came to the finish line a few friends called her back, and Scooter thought it would be only polite to let them in...

And to our utter astonishment, our daughter finished in the top twenty five, thereby sending our leaf collector, dreamer, social, polite, running, butterfly off to the finals.

We were, astonished to our daughter's placing in the race and were certainly delighted that she was going on to the next level.

And of course, we were there for the next race.

But this race was different, as the children were coached as to the importance of the day. How they were representing their school, how it was about how they finished, and what place they finished and if the motivational speech from the gym teacher was not enough, Chariots of Fire was blaring in the background.

And then they were off...

And to our surprise our daughter was at the front of the pack... Heading out along the beach on a glorious, blustery fall day with the sun shining brightly overhead.Our daughter was running and enjoying her moment.

And so BoyWonder and I ran to the finish line.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

No Scooter.

Every other child had crossed but no Scooter.

And then we saw her. A good ten minutes behind the last of the group.

Her arm around an old friend, her friend was crying, and Scooter was walking with her.

Helping her along the path.

It ends up that Scooter's friend, from a competing school, had fallen, trying to catch up to our Scooter.

And in the fall she called Scooter's name.

Scooter heard her, and ran back.

Scooter helped her friend up as the pack blast past them.

Scooter dusted her friend off.

And Scooter walked with her friend around the course, amd reassured her. Scooter and her friend walked through the sand, up the hill, as Chariots of Fire blared in the background and parents cheered on their runners.

Scooter's friend burst into tears at the finish line, and sobbed into her mother's arms.

'Mamma,' Scooter's friend cried 'I, I , I wahhh, waaaahhh, wasssss deeeeead laaaahhhhst.'

And Scooter went up to her friend and tried to give solace, and said 'No, you weren't Grace, I was.'

Such moments are gifts, such moments are so wonderful, such moments are just a bit of heaven found on a primary race course on a beautiful, blustery, fall day.

2007-10-12T15:41:00.000-04:00

A Portrait of Friendship

Dave was a man of routine. Dave was a man who did not like change. He would diligently go to work 5:45 a.m. everday. He had his reasons for not departing from his home at 5:55 a.m. and if you were willing to listen he could list off all the reasons for the acceptablilty of 5:45 a.m. He could give you hours of explanation with great attention to detail as to why he would leave at such a time. But most of us would gloss over the information and know that Dave goes to work at 5:45 a.m. and he has his reasons and not open the book of time with him again.

Dave's job was that of a transit attendant, this job had him housed alone in a the dark caverns of a subway station, with the unfriendly flourescent lights above and no promise of the lights and shadows of the true outdoors to permiate his work space. Dave worked at the busiest intersection of my city for eight hours a day. He saw at least 10,000 people a day, as they crossed his turnstile.The patrons would duly place their tickets, or change into the toll booth and would they would push forward through to their true destinations. Dave was the gatekeeper. Dave would always greet his patrons with a smile, a wee joke or antidote about where they were going. But for the most part, their interaction would be limited and Dave, for the most part, was a faceless man in a booth. A person you greeted everyday with a smile but rarely would you know his name let alone believe he had an identity outside the walls of the tube.

But for all those people, for the 10,000 people plus, and all those anecdotes hovering in the air, it was a pretty lonely existence. Each person would have a place to go, a place to be, and Dave was the facillitator.They, the ten thousand people had about 3.5 seconds to exchange their news of the day. They had places to go. 3.5 seconds, was enough time to say his name and give him a nod or a wink as the pushed on to their destination of choice. None would give him more than a 3.5 second thought.

Dave's existence, with the fabric of thousands walking through his toll was pretty lonely. Dave never complained. It was a living.

Dave had the company of his three daily newspapers. He would go through all the papers and would diligently note any quirky newsworthy items, and he would painstakingly clip out all comics in which he thought caused a smile. He was connected to the outside world through his papers, they were a lifeline of sorts. A lifeline of clippings to friends, friends and their families. A birthday card would often be riddled with at least twelve cartoons directly related to the recipient, no one could ever say a birthday card had no thought given when it came from Dave.

Dave would come to my bar every Thursday night at 7:45p.m. after his shift as a subway attendant. He would swagger into the bar, with his duffel bag loaded down with his news of the day. The bag never carried a work out outfit or change of shoes, just his papers and the remnants of his lunch and maybe the odd pack of cigarettes, deodorant and his endless assortment of keys.

When Dave would come into my bar, he would wear his uniform. I think his uniform gave him a voice. A voice of authority, with the emblems of the station, our city and of our country stitched into the fabric. Dave was patriotic, Dave believed that his job had purpose. Dave believed he contributed to the fabric of our city.

Dave wore a hairdo which was reminiscent of the 50's. His once golden locks, now silver, were slicked back in a perfect duck tail. He wore a black onyx ring which commemorated his twenty years of service to the city. He wore it on his wedding finger though he had never been married. For if anything, the ring he showed his commitment to the subway and all her patrons.

Dave through his trustworthy newspapers, and incredible memory could ramble off endless facts, he could tell you the life span of a mosquito, just as he could with great authority tell you the temperature inside a volcano. He could recall the stats of what the average rainfall would be in London in June, just as he knew the mating rituals of the white rhino, he could tell you about the theory of relativity, just as he could tell you about the election practices of various tribes, his scope was endless. He was a walking trivial pursuit game. He knew facts, he knew solid numbers, the gray of emotions never muted through his conversations. He was always quick with a smile and a fact to accompany it. Dave knew everything.

I had introduced Dave to Stripes, aka Peter. I knew these two men would get along famously as to their natures which to some would seem entirely opposite but to me seemed like a true marriage of friendship.

And for seventeen years it was just that. Peter would laugh endlessly at Dave's stories. He truly appreciated every birthday card ladened down with endless cartoon clippings which would be sent to him. He would drive Dave to every event and they would leave together. They would hold court together and Peter always could laugh at Dave's corny jokes no matter how many times Dave told the joke. Peter never gave away the punchline.They were truly old souls.

When Peter got sick it rocked Dave to his core. He wanted to be supportive, he wanted to give back to his ole friend but there was nothing he could do. He was at a loss. He mustered the strength for one visit to his friend's bedside. No bullet proof case could have protected his heart. And there certainly were no news articles in coping with a friend who was terminally ill. And there certainly were no Hallmark cards addressing it, For if there was, I certain Dave would have at least been able to purchase it. For by buying the card, maybe Dave would not have felt so alone.

And when Peter left our planet, Dave called me.

Stripes died, Bright Eyes.

Oh, Dave....

Now, Peter gave Dave a nick name. A nickname I nearly fully understood. He called him the Captain. Captain Dave, and yet Dave never seemed to commandeer any vehicle I knew of...

But it was a name Dave embraced. A name which gave him the notion of taking charge. And he used it often when talking of his last visit with Peter.
And in ending our conversation it was arranged that the Captain would come to my home and take me to Stripes' funeral.

It did not occur to me that I had never seen Dave drive a car until he came to pick me up, it seemed so out of character to see him out of his uniform, without his duffel bag and in a car. But it did not seem real that we would be going to bury Peter so soon.

But a great deal of things that he did that day seemed strangely in character.

Like the fact that Dave never had purchased a map to go to our friend's new city. He was going to rely on a placemat that he acquired from the local Denny's.

I knew that that placemat had to have been from the last dinner he had with Peter. I knew that it was a fact that he held fast.

But being reasonable, I asked if we could stop at the gas station where I claimed I needed a water when in fact I had to purchase a map.... I would not take the place matt away from Dave, but firmly give direction through another medium. As I understand he had his issues but I had mine as well....And not getting lost on the way to the funeral home was mine.

When we arrived at the funeral without incident I breathed a sigh of relief. And I tried to help Dave along the way. I guided him into the room where we were both embraced by Peter's daughters and by Peter's lovely Joanne.

We then walked through Peter's life together.

And at the end of it all lay our dear, sweet, Peter.

And there we stood for quite a longtime and Joanne came up and asked Dave if he would do the honour of being one of Peter's pall bearers...

Now, dear Blogger please do not take this the wrong way. Please realize that with Dave, he is a logical man, and all that he was experiencing was beyond logic. His heart ached, as his best friend in the whole world was gone.
10,000 people would not know of his pain. But I do. I know how much his heart was broken.

So when Joanne asked for Dave to be a pall bearer.
Dave balked.

He said'I dunno Joanne. That casket, that casket looks like the 3000 titanium series, and I think it weighs a ton, WITHOUT Peter in it...'

I just looked at Dave and just nudged him' Dave? What's that?' And how the heck do you know the weight of the bloody casket???

Well, Pendullum, I know, I've read upon them... Why the titianium series???My back... and the weight... and Peter...

And Joanne assured him that he would not have to lift a thing it was all on a pulley system, and he but merely had to guide it down the ramp to the hearse where hydraulic lifts would do all the work... And Peter chose to be cremated so it would be not problem as it was all ramps to the crematorium.

And with all these facts firmly in place, Dave agreed to be the pall bearer...

Now, Peter always loved a good story and he would have loved how Dave knew all those facts about the casket, he would have loved that Joanne was not dissuaded by Dave's initial abrupt refusal. Peter also would have loved the fact that I forgot to turn off my cellphone it rang right at the time the minister guided us to one of Peter's favourite passages. He would also love the various shades of red I turned when I tried to find my phone, in my overloaded purse. I could hear his laughter through everyone else's scorned looks.

But I think the thing that Peter would have loved the most...

And Peter being a good man got his one last laugh.

When we got to the crematorium, when these less than athletic pallbearers were gently guiding his casket up the ramp, these men who were taking their jobs with pride, as they guided their late friend along, these friends were jolted to an abrupt stop when the hydraulic lift broke. And the casket kinda did a plunge and they all had to take quick action to hoist their friend. And all had to carry the titanium casket to its resting place.

I know that it is terrible of me.

But when they all started swearing, arguing and heaving it was too much for me...

They all cursed the Titanium 3000 series.

I looked up to the heavens and laughed...

As Peter so did not want to leave....

But at least he left with a good story...

2007-07-23T13:00:00.001-04:00

I buried a friend in June.

I buried him on the anniversary of his first date with his true love, the one he had been searching for his entire life. And where I would love to say they had years together, they did not.

They had 363 days together. 363 days to love each other, 363 days to bask in each other.

Around the 200th day, Peter was told he had terminal cancer. he has told he had but weeks to live. He did not believe he would die. His entire being felt too much joy and love for him to be leaving so soon. He could not leave her just after he found her and in turn found the missing part of himself.

Peter in his true zeal for life, did not accept the death sentence. He would never utter aloud the possibility that he could be dying, but he knew he was. His body was betraying his heart.

Peter loved Joanne. He loved her forever and always. He wanted to announce it to God. He wanted to marry his one true love. He wanted to marry Joanne, with his children, his grandchildren and his friends to bare witness . He wanted to sing her voice to the heavens as he certainly had a grasp of what heaven could be.

There was a complication.

A complication of thirty years.

Peter was married. Married to someone else.

Peter was married. He had been married for 30 years.

He had been legally separated from his wife for 24 years, But on paper he was still married.

For twenty four years he had his own residence. For twenty four years he had his own independent life.

Peter did not leave his wife for another woman. He did not leave because of finances or because of drink.

He left because he did not love his wife and She never loved him. No spark ever flew their way to cause the 'friendship' to catch fire in his marriage, and he knew deep in his heart that it never would. He was told thirty years ago that he would fall in love with her through time. And in the six years of marriage, two children later, there was no love, laughter or song; just misery. He could not see the marriage getting better through time, even though he was told it would.

But Peter was a romantic. Peter dared to think and believe in loves' true desire. Peter believed that everyone had a love contrary to the doctrine of his parents. Peter bore witness to many people finding their true loves.He even witnessed and celebrated as his children found their true loves. Peter celebrated each wedding of souls, And Peter, in his heart, believed that there was someone out there for him and someday he would find her.

Belief and love are wonderful things to believe in, as in honour and being true to yourself and others. In such beliefs, I think I can safely sum the core of Peter's existence on our planet. And in the twenty years I knew him I can safely say the earth was a better place because he roamed it and spread his gallantry everywhere he went.

I will now fast forward to Peter's last year of roaming earth. The year in which he found happiness.

Peter went to a picnic held by friends. He was talking with his old friends when he heard a woman laugh. He heard the melody of her voice, and he looked to find the owner of the beautiful maker of merriment.
And there she was.
His sixty year old heart fluttered. His legs felt weak.
He just stared.
His friend 'Moose' asked him if he was okay as it looked as if Peter had seen a ghost.
And Peter truly could not talk for a moment.
His mouth was dry and words escaped him, he stammered, or so he told me.
He just stood and stared. He felt like a schoolboy, this hulking six foot five man, felt uncertain of his footing, he was trying to manuever his hulking body over to this wee, powerful woman with the most magnificient smile he had ever seen. He, in his sixty years of life had never felt so alive, so nervous,so scared or so uncertain of himself.

He awkwardly approached her, he had to talk with her...

And he did.

He swirled, he swooned,his universe was complete.

He met her. He tingled all over. He was giddy. He was absorbed. He was alive.

He met her and it all made sense. His choices and the road he travelled on finally lead to her door.

All embedded in laughter and the melody of a voice. The voice of his dreams.

And they talked.

And they laughed.

And then without a moment to lose he asked her on a 'date'.

And she accepted and they saw each other the following week.

And that date.; that date sealed fate. That date with a true loves first kiss, where Peter realized all in which he had been missing. He was not filled with dread or regret, just youthful anticipation, as this, this, is what he had been waiting for all his life.It was worth the wait. All in the kiss, his world became full.

The kiss must have caused the earth to shudder and tremble in anticipation and it alerted the heavens, and the universe must have felt the collision of these two souls.

They both knew in that kiss. She at the very young age of fifty seven had met her soulmate who was sixty.

They had waited and searched long enough to know.

And they began to have a list of firsts, little did they know it would also be filled with their lasts as well....

They bought their first home together, they had their first Christmas, first new Years,first Valentine's,their first, their first...

Joanne knew how much Peter loved cars, and she bought him a car for his first birthday with her..His first new car in twenty years. And he loved it. He loved that car. He boasted about his car,he felt he could just go about anywhere ion earth. And when he would call he would talk about it. He would talk about his new life and you could hear happiness dripping through the phoneline.

Peter had found true happiness, Peter had found his true love.

I was so very very happy for him, for them.

Peter called me, six months into his new life...

'Bright Eyes, (Did I mention Peter had nicknames for everyone? He was Stripes, to me)Life is so good...But I kinda have a hiccup in my path...'

Hiccup?

Yeah... Ahh...

'What sort of hiccup? ' I hate to say it, but I know the pause now , I know the pregnant pause,the gasp of air and of courage.I know when someone pauses, pauses while calling out of the blue, causes them to call to let you know they love you, and tries to make the word, the nasty horrible word,'okay' for you to hear. I know the dance of skirting around the word, the word which can causes hearts to break and bodies to crumble. I know the word which causes souls to bare up and take arms and grasp on to what they have.

Bright Eyes,I have cancer.

Where?

Ahh,now that's the question... I have it in my lungs and in my brain... A double whammy...

Stripes, Oh Stripes...

Oh,its treatable... I need to going for radiation and chemo... Day by day...It's going to be okay...

Now, it was not okay. I know this, Peter knows this.

Peter was sick and he was dying. He would never utter those words to say he may leave this planet. He would never give cancer that pleasure or that power over his fate. He would never utter those words that the cancer truly had a hold on him. Peter was strong, Peter was stubborn, Peter was an optomist and if anything Peter was a true and noble fighter.

But he felt the cancer was a time to put his affairs in order.

He loved his Joanne. He loved her with all his heart and he wanted to celebrate her. He wanted to celebrate and bask in his soulmate and share with all of us, his true happiness.Canccer could not take this away from him. He had indeed found heaven on earth.

He wanted to marry his Joanne.

He wanted his friends to bare witness.He wanted God to see, he wanted to sing her voice in a church,through vows of devotion,and the promising of souls, he wanted a wedding. A wedding and a true marriage which had alluded him until now.

All he needed to do was to divorce his first wife. He approached his first wife with the prospect of a divorce.

She could not believe her ears. He had found love? How foolish could Peter be?

And she with the doubt and scorn in her heart, she, refused to divorce Peter.

Twenty four years is a great deal of water and time under the bridge of regret. Apparently even though she agreed wholeheartedly with separation from Peter, as she too felt no love. She was not willing to believe that someone else could love him.

He was in disbelief.He was hurt.He was dumbfounded. He did not think this would be a fight.He did not think this fight was part of the plan. Cancer certainly was not part of the plan but this defiance, seemed much more hurtful and deliberate than his disease which was robbing him of time.

His wife had told him to lawyer up and that she was going to give him a fight.

Lawyer up? A fight?

Peter found it to be overwhelming. It broke his heart.He had no time to 'Lawyer up'. And in his heart he would never have the energy to 'Lawyer up'.He had no time to fight this futile battle. He knew he did not have years. He did not know if he even had months, and he knew he did not have the energy to go into fighting for the sake of fighting. And what would be what she was fighting for?

Everyone stood along Peter's side on this one. His children, his priest and even the Bishop was called in to try and reason with a woman who had a desire to try out the family judicial system.

She would not budge and she hired a lawyer as she fully intended to lawyer up.

Peter was never a wealthy man. Peter made do. There was no hidden monies in all of this. In the separation agreement Peter gave his wife the house, the car, paid support for the children while they were living in the house, paid for the children's university educations and he paid for the weddings.

His first wife was not bitter in the separation. She was fine with him living his life of solitude.

But now twenty four years later, with the prospect of Peter moving on she hung on to spite.

Peter was dumbfounded of what to do.

He had never experienced such hatred in his life. And to lack the compassion, for his plight was truly near an end left him heartbroken.

Peter's health began to falter. He was in inpallative care at home. And everyday, he would insist on leaving his bed, and going directly outside to the driveway where his magnificent car from Joanne was parked.
He would go to his car, sit in the driveway and look at his house, and there he would sit alone with maybe the radio for company. I imagine he wanted the image of his happy, fulfilled life to be truly embedded in his brain. I imagine he wanted to make up for all the moments he wished he had. I imagine he was making up for lost time, for time, he wished he could pull up to his home after a long day at the office and appreciate the moment of arriving home where his love would be in wait of him. He wanted to make up for the years of not finding the home filled with love in which he deeply desired.

When the cancer depleted him of his ability to walk he would insist to be carried out to continue his ritual. And when he had soaked in his happiness of his home and of his 'love car' and of his life, He would honk the horn, when he was done and would be carried back into his lovenest. He would be carried back to his home and into his true love's arms.

Peter was nearing the end. Peter was troubled. He could not leave her. He could not leave before doing what was right. He needed to do what was right. He needed to follow his heart. He needed to marry Joanne. But where could he turn, as certainly earth was letting him down.

He turned to the church. He would need help with his passage. And with this,the church listened and bore witness to what they saw before them. They saw true love.

And with this, Peter and his spiritual leaders, formed a plan, the church took compassion on Peter and his fair Joanne. They, the members of the church, felt that Peter and Joanne were true soulmates. The church took a stand, they felt it would be a sin not to marry them. They felt it would be a terrible injustice on earth. An injustice in which they, the members of the clergy could and would find a remedy.

The Priest and the Bishop came up with a solution to dodge the 'lawyering up', as law had nothing to do with the soul.

The Bishop married Peter and Joanne spiritually while his daughters, their husbands and Joanne's family of children and grandchildren were in attendence. They were not in a church, but in the house in which Peter and Joanne lived together. A house which bore witness to great love.The church married this young, old soul, couple. The church married the souls together. And a more beautiful couple you would be hard pressed to find.

They were married six weeks before Peter passed away from their home.

I know that it may sound strange, but I am happy for my friend. I am happy that he truly felt love's first kiss. I am truly happy that Peter found love. I guarantee he will hover over the house and stay in the driveway and look into his home for a while, and then his heart will carry him through the door. As he certainly, Peter did find his heaven on earth.

2007-07-07T11:16:00.000-04:00

07/07

BoyWonder was working on challenging, interesting and creative work in 2005. This work was involved and had him either working late into the night, or leaving our fair country on a plane, across the ocean, through a few time zones, to London England. London, England, became a remote place. A place that had a firm hold on BoyWonder. A place where he would go, with a team of people, a place where he would have to stay for days, a place which promised hours and hours of planning before he left and when he returned, it promised more work, and more hours away from his home. London,England was a place where he could take a brief moment to visit his sister, a place where he seemed to have time to have dinner... A place which seemed far from reach of a daughter of seven. A place where the Queen lived and where there would be castles and even princes, but this city with all her charms, held no romance for Scooter.

Scooter, was a patient child waiting for her father to be free of the endless deadlines and travels to LondonEngland. But there were times when her brave front could bare no more. When all her friends had times and moments spent with their fathers and she was in want of hers.

I remember Father's Day in 2005, Scooter had painstakenly made her father a gift and a card. She was full of anticipation of sharing the day with her dad. So when BoyWonder had to work on a deadline on Father's Day she was not happy.
And he, so wanting to please, came home for a harried dinner with us before his imminent departure.

Scooter ate her dinner and was brave. She gave her father his glorious gift, a gift which took her weeks of making, a gift which to her was a gift from the heavens, or at least of her adventures to school. Scooter had made a paper mache bird. Not just any bird, a maginificent bird. A bird who seemed to seranade her on her way to school. A bird who always caused her to pause, on her travels to school, she never failed to appreciate its wondrous melody. It always made her smile. It always seemed to bring a peace to her. A moment she always shared with me, and now, Scooter had made her father a part of that 'moment'. She had brought him the heavens. She wanted to bring him into that special part of her world, the Purple Finch, a world of melody and song, found in her city. A great deal of paradise was in that wee parcel in which he held fast.

He opened her great gift, read her wonderful card of love and daughterly devotion, and truly appreciated the wonder she had made for him, and as he filled with tears of appreciation for what his daughter bestowed upon him , his limosine arrived to take him away. He had to go. He had to leave our wee unit and go across an ocean where no Purple Finches lay in wait for him. No glorious melodies in which he could take pause. And it broke his heart. But she could not see this. She was all of seven.

Her face dropped. She could only see what lay ahead, He was leaving.

And when the limo pulled away, with her dad waving and looking back, my daughter melted . She sobbed in my stomach as he disappeared into a speck in the distance. I held her tight.

She pulled away and cried, 'He's my dad and it's OUR day, It is my daddy's and my day...Father's DAY. Not LONDONENGLAND's DAY! !!!He's MY DAD, and LondonEngland is taking him away...it's not fair!!! I hate LONDONENGLAND'

There are times, when reason and logic can help pass the time, and then there are times when we need to be illogical and wanting... It all evens out, and hopefully we strike a balance. But in that time, no amount of logic, or persuasion of the promise of time in the future could help mend my daughter's disappointed, hurt,heart. Time could and would heal this wound but the promise did not lay there on our front porch.

Now, my birthday is a big cause for celebration in our home. It is a time of grand celebration, as it also marked by BoyWonder's and my LOVE anniversary.The event is normally marked with a few traditions...

One of the traditions is for BoyWonder and Scooter to adventure into the shopping arena on a quest for the perfect gift fo me. It becomes a father daughter week as they painstakenly pour into various shops trying to find the perfect gift. This tradition has been in place since Scooter could point at and nodd, or shake her head in disagreement. And the two relished the moment in finding the perfect gift, along with making the perfect card, to symbolize all of their love.

London had taken Scooter's beloved Daddy away to London and he would not arrive back home until the day before my birthday. Again with LondonEngland, again with the sacrafice of a tradition, or a moment spent.

She was hurt. She would not want to talk of LondonEngland, when he called, she did not want to hear of all the sites he had seen. She did not want to know that he had the chance to see his sister. She would just sneer and would state 'I hate LondonEngland, Daddy. '
And by never referring to London as London, but as LondonEngland there was a greater divide. She would never be on familiar terms with LondonEngland... She would never regress to calling it London while it, that mysterious city, had a hold of her Daddy.

And so, when BoyWonder called on July 6th, she would barely talk to him. She was occupied with her life at home. He was away. Away from her and our home and our traditions. My birthday was a few short days away. And her daddy was away in LondonEngland. He tried to appease her by saying he would be home tomake a cake and we could have my birthday celebration on the LOVE celebration day...

Reason had left this seven year old who is still left waiting with unfulfilled promises of time spent with her father. And so my wee, Scooter, was a bit short and a tad jaded with her daddy when he called.

And I know he was a bit hurt. And as she thrust the phone to me,refusing to hear of his news.She did not want to hear of the long hours or of the stifling heat, and how he had been spending way too much time on the tube. She cared not for how hot the tubes were in London , contrary to our home subways stations. She did not care that we had some cool relief as we decend into the earths bowels, compared to her father whot had only a stifling wall of heat when he went on the subway.

BoyWonder has never done well in heat in London, or in our country. And in London, accompanied with his misery of being separated from his family, was a city of heat with no relief, no air conditioners and no cross winds. And no communication of misery was going to bring him closer in the great divide of an ocean and telephone wires.

He signed off, letting me know that it was to be long day with a great deal of travel through the city proper of London. July 7th was a filled day of travel. And a great deal of time will be spent on the tube. He hung up with the promise to call me around his suppertime.

On July the 7th I awoke with a start. I have no idea why I would wake up at 5:30 in the morning, and my heart was racing. Logically there was no reason for me to rise as such an hour. There is no logical reason for my my shortness of breath and for my heart to be beating so strongly. I had to dullen the sensation, so I decided to turn on my clock radio.

I turned on the radio and my heart began to race further... My heart was indeed racing for a reason... My heart was in London.

And the radio, the radio informed me of terror. The radio let me know of a terror which hit London. Terrorist's bombs had hit the London Tubes and there was no news on how many had died and how many stations were truly affected.

My heart dropped, but it felt reason, my heart felt panic but it did permit my brain to listen to reason to the radio, I listened further... King's Cross station? That! That, was Boy Wonder's station... And a bus? on Tavistock? Was that not, my sister in law's route???

No, no...

I rushed downstairs. I found my address book. I flicked on the television. I needed to see. My mind was too occupied with the words swirling about, I could not find reason. But somehow I was not filled with dispair, but disbelief of what the journalists were reporting.

I called my sister in law's work line.

It took so much time to get through to London. Her lines were blocked. The world was anxious.I was anxious, I knew it would take time to forge through the lines, I was one of hundreds of thousands who needed to hear from their loved ones. But I knew from September 11th, from the past terror attack, that this was the 'norm'. I just kept trying. I knew the drill, and no news is good news. Just keep calling. It gives you something to do. The mechanics of pressing redial can give you a chance to feel as though you could control the uncontrollable fate.

And while I had no news, my heart reasoned that BoyWonder and his collegues, and his sister were alive.

I finally reached my SIL's office.

A very, kind voice, calm and with no alarm in its intonation said 'Ahh, she's just returned. She has been in the courtyard smoking all morning. I have never seen her smoke before.and now she is at it all day. Here she is!'

'Ann?'

Oh,Pendullum she cried"I didn't want to wake you with such news. What are you doing up?'

'I dunno know I have been up for hours.'

And with this, Ann cries... allows herself to cry..'I just got word. He's safe.They are all safe. I have not spoken with him... But one of his collegues has just spoken with him... I've been smoking and crying, all morning. Why the hell am I smoking??? I don't smoke!'

'Pendullum,' she sobbed, 'Pendullum... I walked him to King's Cross Station at 8:40... I thought he went in.. I, I saw him go in...'

I knew at this point the bomb at King's Cross went off at 8:50... My poor sister in law had thought he went in...

For certainly she did see him go in... She watched him enter King's Cross Station and then she went on her way...She ran, as she was running late for work.

Ann did not see BoyWonder turn around. She had no idea that he had to turn around as he reached the turnstile. For as he reached the turnstile he had realized he had forgotten his tube pass back at the hotel... BoyWonder had to retrace his steps.He had left the station by 8:42 am.

For two, horrendous chain smoking hours, Ann had thought her brother was caught in the tube. Logic had told her he was. Logic had seen him decend. But how could we logically believe that someone could plant a bomb and take so much away from so many innocent people. So many people who were going about their day. So many people who kissed their loved ones goodbye and went about their business. Logic made no sense.

Now, BoyWonder did not know that there was a bomb on the tubes... When he returned to the tube station, it was closed. It was closed due to a 'mechanical problem'. He was told to set on foot. And since BoyWonder knows the city, through his endless models, he made his way on foot. He walked and walked, in the stifling heat, with hundreds of other Londonners. Everyone was going to work as like any other day.

There was calm. All was ruly.

And finally, he thought to stop a Bobbie...

The Bobbie informed him of a mechanical, electrical problem on the tubes...

BoyWonder assessed that this was perfectly reasonable explanation and continued to walk... Continued on, with the mass of commuters, inconvenienced, due to the electrical problem.

And about a mile from his first encounter with a Bobbie, he saw another,and asked of the progress with the mechanical problem...'Sir, there has been a terrorist attack... We fear hundreds dead This is not a mechanical problem.'

'Hundreds dead? Terrorist attack?' This made no sense with all the orderly behaviour all around. This defied the logic BoyWonder knew.
And 'It' hit BoyWonder. It hit my husband. It hit for all that was lost or could be lost...

It hit him to think of how many mothers, children and husbands could, would be on the tube...He had been on that tube for the past few days. He knew some of the faces. He knew some of the people's faces on the daily ride on the tube, those who kissed their loved ones goodbye would not have the chance to see them alive again. Not to have another moment together... Not to have time...

He had to pause, as how could he keep walking with such knowledge in his heart, and the immence sorrow on his shoulders... Terror was beyond what he felt... He felt loss...a profound loss for all those who could be in the tube...

How could he not have a moment to cry???

And then he realized, he realized others may be thinking of him. He tried to find a vacant phone booth. The lineups for the limited phones were endless, as all the cell phones were no longer working, as London was on high alert lock down... Cell phones could be used to detonate bombs. All signals were blocked. A city of millions which is entirely reliant on the cell phone was left looking for old style phone booths.

BoyWonder realized he would just have to get to his meeting,and call people from the office...

When I spoke with my husband, I was relieved and resassured. I informed him, that I would call his family and that I would tell our Scooter.

He did not think this would be a logically wise move. He did not want her to know. He felt it was too much for our daughter.

But with so much on his plate, he did not argue his point any further and left me to make the decision of what to do.

Now, dear reader after such a scare, you bask in the normality which follows. You are grateful for the routine in your chosen life. But only after you have a moment to embrace what truly could have been lost. And you cry. and then when you finish with your tears of gratitude, you then become overwhelmed : overwelmed for those who did not have the call saying their loved one was safe.., And you cry for your fellow man. You cry for all who died. and for those left behind. I cried for London.

And when my daughter arose, I cherished my 'normal' morning. I cherished every second. I savoured the moments. I drank in my daughter, I savoured her smell, I savoured the lilt of her laughter. I savoured her complaints of how it was too early to go to camp. I enjoyed reminding her that she indeed needed to brush her teeth. And I took in the moment of brushing her long hair, I looked at its length, its unique colour, its smell of lavendar and they way it fell on her shoulders. I lost myself in her.

And when it was time to embark on our adventure to camp,I certainly did drink in the purple finches melody as he serranaded us this particular morning.

I know I held her fast.I know I was grateful.I know I held onto the moment.

Maybe I stood a bit longer than usual as I watched her being embraced by her friends? And maybe I had a bit of a cry as she disappeared with all of her friends. I can not remember my blur of emotion which filled my soul in which I had to leave my daughter to her normal day.

And when I picked Scooter up from camp, we seized the day. We had a grand adventure in our city. And with the grand adventure beneath our belts I took my daughter to her favourite restaurant for dinner where I did tell her of the events of London in the morning.

And she looked at me and said'Momma, I know... Scores of injured and twenty dead!'

How did you know that? Scores? How do you know 'scores'???

Momma, it was on the radio this morning. I know. I heard it on your radio.

Honey, I am so sorry, I should have talked to you about it sooner...

Momma, if it was something I was supposed to know you would have told me...

I know, I just maybe should have told you earlier...

Oh,Momma... Why did it happen???

Now, there's a loaded question, and really logic escapes me on the answer.

And as I wrestled with the answer, I marvelled at how she asked questions, waited for answers and then asked more. She knew there was no solid answer, but she in all her 7 year old wisdom, who still believed in fairydust and unicorns, could wrap her mind around such issues. I was content to have that moment... I was disturbed with the topic, I was heartbroken with the events which lead us to talking at the sandwich stand, but I was so grateful to be talking about the events, as an event of the past and that effected our family and so many others. We had empathy for LondonEngland. We felt great sorrow for London and of her citizens.

We went home a bit more sombrily.

And when Scooter's dad called , she ran for the phone, she did let him know that she loved him and missed him. She asked him to stay safe. And that she is sorry for LondonEngland.

And just as everything seemed to be settling down for the night. A girlfriend of mine called to see how I was coping.To see how my heart was settling,and as I seemed to finally be at peace, as I talked about how the events unfolded, something happened.

I looked over over at my window and where my daughter's budgie resides. Her crazy bird, did some kinda bizarre yank of the beak, as I was on the phone and as I watched, in horror. He had ripped his beak off... There was blood on the window, I was mortified.Oh, my gawd... What the hell is that???

I told my girlfriend I had to goooooooo...

And just as I went to examine the bird.. Scooter screamed and came down the stairs with blood dripping down her face. I quickly put a cover over the bird's cage, I could not deal with the bird,my daughters blood, and my daughter's reaction to her pet's Harry Carrey moment.

Somehow Scooter had knocked her front tooth out and she was bleeding a great deal. She looked like a miniature Dracula after a kill. It was the last of her front baby teeth, and she was not too concerned with the blood and the suddeness of the loss. Scooter was more excited about the prospect of the tooth fairy's arrival. The blood would stop and there was indeed the promise of magic this evening.

I could not get caught up in her moment. It was all too surreal with the budgie in the cage and my mini Dracula excited about the visit from the glittering collector of teeth. I needed to buy sometime to try and figure out what to do with Scooter's pet who looked like Popeye with a mouth filled with spinach.

I cleaned my daughter up, I put on a movie for her and then I went to call my girlfriend who is a vetranarian assistant...

She can not believe the events of the day and gives her condolences as logically Crystal,the budgie, with a ripped beak, will not make it til morning. Crystal had just a brief moment of time to live. I was to make her comfortable, and keep the cage dark as budgies go into caves to die. She does not believe the bird is suffering as it is calm. It will just pass.

I know this is not the news I can give my daughter. I can not give this information to her, not with her dad away, with bombs that have gone off in subways,not with my birthday looming and certainly not when there is the promise of fairy dust and magic in the air.

I can not begin to digest all. I just need to make it through the night without my wee daughter seeing Popeye the Horrific Budgie downstairs. I chose to call it a night and deal with everything on a new day, as the 7th needed to end.

I went upstairs, read stories with Scooter and to my surprise I fell into deep slumbers with her.

I awoke and my first thought was Popeye the Bird. I went downstairs and prepared for the worst. I lifted the cover and there he wa,s still alive, and taking a drink of water... and looking a bit crazy as he obviously has tried to groom himself with his/her faulty beak, he chose to live.

And then as I stared at the crazy Budgie, I could hear the thumpthaumpthaump of my daughter's graceful decent...

I put the blanket back on the cage and smiled wildly at my daughter...

She is very upset...

She didn't come!

Who didn't come???And as the words flowed off my lips,I remembered... I remembered that the world was still filled with miracles and I had let one down...

The tooth fairy didn't come...

No dust, No magic... and she took the tooth but didn't leave anything behind...

'Oh, Honey, there has to be some explanation... But we are running late for camp...
Lemme make breakfast and you can eat it quickly upstairs in the TV room.

Really?in the TV room?? Breakfast? she squealed.

Anything to keep you away from the next disappointment, thought I...

And my daughter dutifully ate her breakfast and got changed. And I , was only too grateful that Popeye the crazed bird, did not make a sound. I was fearful of it squawking and drawing attention to its new fangelled look.

But I still had to figure out a solution,and think of a miracle for my wee daughter...

The tooth fairy had let her down...

And as we walked to camp, it dawned on me... We have two cages at home...I could go to a pet store get a 'replacement' for Crystal, our ill fated Pirate Popeye budgie a budgie of the same colouring and I would purchase a 'mate' from the tooth fairy...
I was able to breath a bit easier...Just drop Scooter off and then head to the local pet store.

Easy as pie...

I picked up the two budgies, I whisked home, found the new cage.

I quickly wrote a letter from the deliquent tooth fairy, poured water over it, as it would look like I retrieved the note from her aquarium beside her bed and went off with confidence of fairy dust on my hands, to pick up by daughter from camp.

Ahh, Scooter, Look what I found in your aquarium...

And with that, a face sprang to delight... Fairy dust...

A face where miracles and the truly unexplained can come to light...

And certainly more explainable than the happenings of July 7, 2005.

And when BoyWonder came home, he was held. He was kissed and savoured. He did make a cake with his darling Scooter,and she forgave him, as they went shopping for the perfect gift of LOVE for her Momma.

And just as a footnote, Popeye Crystal, the Crazed Budgie, lived for a year in our basement. A room which was never used. And he was happy there. He never had to hear orders of children squealing their names for him never to repeat. He died ironically enough July 6th the following year, and left with a song. He had found his voice and then died before it could be discovered by Scooter. A deep dark secret along with the true markings of July 7,2005.

The miserable two Budgies, who were markers for July 7th, the replacements, squawked continually, with each other and died shortly after Popeye finding no voice at all.

We, now only appreciate the melody of the Purple Finch, as they are free and remind us of special moments, moments which can not be captured. They always command us to stop, to look up, to appreciate their splendor in their song. It always takes a few seconds of carefully listening before we can locate the maker of the beautiful melody. Sometimes they are hidden in trees, or maybe on top of a house, and sometimes they are out in the open on a wire, or maybe sometimes we can not find them at all, but the glorious melody causes our hearts to fill with delight. It sings for the sake of singing. BoyWonder, Scooter and I have had many Purple Finch melodies since July 7th, 2005, and I am grateful for taking the time to appreciate the moments when logic escapes us, when hearts break, and mend, when fairy dust makes more sense than the logic which faces the world, and sometimes they can all be wrapped up in the pausing for the song of a Purple Finch.

2007-05-30T14:50:00.001-04:00

BoyWonder loves music, or maybe he just loves to torment me? Seventeen years later I have still not been able to figure it out. If there is a good song playing BoyWonder can not restrain himself from drumming at the dinner table, on the stearing wheel, on the door, on a book, to the point where he can drive me into a tailspin with the tapping of Keith Moon, John Bonham and Ringo Starr. But the tapping is nothing compared to his singing. I try for peace when I am with him and I deal with one symptom at a time..

We from the very beginning of our relationship have had a 'no tapping' clause'. A quiet understanding between a couple. The tapping torment has evolved into a 'No tapping face', an expression of bugged out eyes and pierced lips and furrowed brows held by me, and over the years it has become more pronounced, with a sigh and a chin jutting out for good measure. And normally when the no tapping face is shown, the tapping subsides and I am given a few minutes to collect my thoughts.

But tapping seems to be part of my husband's life. I try not to play 'tapping music' over dinner, sometimes the tapping just starts because there is a song in his head, which leads his fingers to start and then full fledged tapping commences, along with fake cymbals and bass drum. My no tapping 'expression' will cause him to stop in 'midtap' or mid cymbal smash. But the energy that has not been expelled through his fingertips, needs to be unleashed elsewhere, so the creative juices then flow to his lips where he will whistle. But some of the notes he can reach can cause a dog to stand at attention and moan for mercy. The whistling will be halted with me sighing and barking a command of 'Pleeeaaaase!?'

This causes him to bounce his leg under the table which causes the ground all around to shake, the crystal the cabinet to vibrate and , the pictures on the mantle come dangerously close to the edge . I have to grab his knee from under the table to restrain it from escalating any further. And sometimes it stops the 'creative flow', and sometimes I have my much wanted and desired peace.

But then, there are other times...

There are times when he will try to refrain, but he will let out a sigh, and begin to eat. But as he eats, if the song is still raging in his head, he may begin to hum, he will hum a tune in which we all know. And then the humming turns into singing... And well, the singing... Ahh, the singing... This is a special wee nuttshell, which I have not cracked open for you.

The thing about BoyWonder's singing is... That he....., Well he, how do I put this?

He 'interprets' music and re writes lyrics to songs...

No song is sacred.

They can be innocent songs which can make Mr. Rogers, Sharon, Lois and Bram and even Raffi smile, but most songs, can go strangely a rye with his twisted, wicked, sense of humour. He can change a song through an accent, or by insinuation, or he can change it by lyrics.

With the accent and intonation of Mike Ditka, (the former coach of the Chicago Bears) he has changed the classic 'Winnie the Pooh' song into a song about 'Winnie da bear, all stuffed with fluff and caaahhhcahh.' He changed the song 'I love you a bushel and a peck' into a song about' Pee and Poo and how 'bout you???' sung in a stiff uppercrust British accent that bares an aweful resemblence to Prince Charles, Prince of Wales. His repetoire is endless.

My daughter loves musicals. Or maybe the love was forced onto her by me. She has seen them all. She at the tender age of three had seen Singing in the Rain about half a dozen times, she has watched every Danny Kaye film, Damn Yankees, Oliver, Gigi, My Fair Lady, Guys and Dolls, American in Paris, West Side Story, Seussical the Musical, she has seen them all.

She can be seen immitating Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain. She will do the footsteps, the hops, the twirls. She can do Danny Kaye's the Vessel in the Pestle, with the exagerated eyebrows and kookie facial expressions.

In Grade Two, her movie of choice, was Fiddler on the Roof. She would walk around my neighbourhood, hunched over like an eighty year old woman with extreme rhuematism walking with a cane/umbrella and using hand gestures she would sing 'Annetevka,'using a thick Yiddish accent.

My daughter when she 'performmes', she does it for herself; not for show; not for an audience, just as her father with his musical prowess is the same... They do it for themselves.They do it for their own amusement. They can not help themselves...

And I am destined to go insane...

But Fiddler on the Roof was my daughter's absolute favourite musical at the time and not beyond Boy Wonder's scope of 'interpretation'. And there were many songs reworked by BoyWonder. But none as much as the 'classic' that is now a legend.

We have a wonderful dog. He is a constant in our lives. He refuses to be away from our family dynamic. Whatever room we are in, our dog is in, a faithful companion to the end.
Our dog is not bashful. Our dog knows no restraint. Our dog has a 'hobby' or so my husband has pointed out; our dog's 'hobby 'is licking his privates at any given time.

So on one particulary, enchanting, evening, full of taps and cymbals Boy Wonder has rewrote the lyrics to 'If I were a Rich Man' , he did this in honour of our dog and his 'hobby of choice'. The melody remains to 'If I Were a Rich Man' but the lyrics have been changed to 'I am Going to Lick my Privates Licky Licky Licky Lick.'

The song was....'catchy'. The song was constant. The song was sung daily; if not hourly.

Our faithful dog licking himself, gave my husband permission to sing his wee diddy. With whistles, with snaps, with tapping, this song has become a classic in our home.

'IIIIII'm going to lick my privates, licky licky licky lick. All day long, I licky licky lick, even though I am not deeeeeeeead!' would belt my husband.

Now, you can see where this is leading can't you?

One day, I am picking up Scooter from school. She is taking a long time to appear in the yard, so I am forced to rush up to her class to see what is keeping her. There are about twelve staggling kids including Scooter's teacher and a student teacher.

The children are putting their coats on and the teacher is reminding them of a last minute spelling test and it is a lucky day as they will have music class in the morning.

Scooter belts out 'Goodie,I love muuuuusic!!!! Mrs. Kirkpatrick?'

'Yes Scooter?'

And from across the room...

'My Dad loves music too. Do ya wanna hear my DAD's favourite song?'

'Oh, I'd love to' says the poor unsuspecting Mrs. Kirkpatrick as she helps a kid with a rough zipper and the student teacher stops tidying up to listen to my daughter.

May I preface, my daughter did NOT say ' it was a song, her Dad sang ABOUT her dog.'

May I add, I was not close enough to stop her.

And really, I did not have any idea of what was going to come out of her mouth...All of these 'things', BoyWonder thought I could have changed or changed the course as they unfolded.

This was her DAD's favourite song...and all her friends, and teachers were going to hear it.

And with a voice that would make Ethel Merman proud, she belts out her DAD's favourite song. ' 'IIIII 'mmmm going to Lick my privates, licky licky licky liiiiick....'

It was like a train wreck.

These poor women with their mouths wide open.

These poor women.

Heck, poor me...Me, with a husband who licks his privates.

I can feel my faceburn ... I just stood there. I could not move. I certainly could not bolt across the room and gag my daughter A totally captive audience, you could hear a pin drop. A catchy tune, a tune sung with the confidence of someone hearing it daily, if not hourly.

And after my dear Barbra Streisand finished the song, her audience of a few girls but mostly boys were numb. They looked at each other. The teacher cleared her throat and said 'Well then, that was a nice ditty.'

But the boys; the boys realized this was a gift from the gods, or at least from Scooter's dad. And almost in unison, began to sing the tune as they left the classroom, spreading the love of music, and of Scooter's Dad, for the entire school and entire neighbourhood to hear. Music class could be brought to new levels the following day.

Two years later, the song is looked upon as a 'classic'. It has been passed on to younger siblings. It is a song which will always be remembered for my daughter's grade two year.

And a song in which it solidified the legend, the true musical genius of my husband, to the boys in my neighbourhood. And sometimes there just is no living with a genius such as Boy Wonder.

And all I can hope for, is, that Boy Wonder, is a one hit wonder.

2007-05-15T12:42:00.001-04:00

During Robert's performance, some of my friends started on with a dialogue.

Who does he think he is? Dylan?

That has to be the worst Dylan impersonator I have ever heard.

I know Dylan and that is NOT Dylan....

Pendullum, you can not be serious? You think? THAT? THAT guy, up there, is Dylan?

As my friends talked and argued about how the man before them, could not be his Holy Folkness, and each revelling in the better insult, I ignored them. Bullying through dialogue does not make a moment any less so...

Robert played on,I sat mesmerized drinking in this truly unique moment. A moment of hearing a person who was at first Robert to me, a nice guy at a bar, who approached me at a bar, who happened to read some of the same books as me, and had some of the same thoughts and interesting antedotes, and as he sang, in this intimate bar, he strangely became distant. He became a rock and roll icon. He was playing for such a select group of people and yet he started to soar, he transformed, as he played the harmonica to where he became unapproachable in my mind's eye. But maybe he became unapproachable as to where he brought me.

I drank in the moment.

And I had seized the moment and just listened to him instead of them.... I heard the voice in my heart and in my head. And I was at peace in my thoughts, his voice brought me on adventures to New York, to peace ralleys, his voice brought me to Paris and and his voice brought me to Larry Durrell and thoughts of enlightenment and faith in a moment.

Dear Blogger reader, and great friends out in cyberspace, I have told you about my dearest Ingrid, a few months ago, and how she came to me with her diagnosis of Stage Four Cancer.

I have told you how scared she was.

I told you, how sad I was. I have told you of my tears. I have told you of my broken heart.

And all of you were so very very kind to me. You poured out heartfelt condolences, you poured out support and you poured out faith, to me, and in me, to be of help to my ailing friend. You tried to support and lift me up, so I could help my friend. You all were being such angels out there in the world. Faceless angels, with gentle whispers, of encouragement and prayers sent through the air.

And I would be wrong to say that I had faith in my heart. On particulary tough days with myself, I would go back to your comments from months ago. And through my tears, they, those kind comments, of love and support, would strangely, help me along the way, bring me comfort and give me glimmers of hope, for the future. But it could be a future that may be without Ingrid.

I would be wrong to say that I was like the woman who first met Dylan, who had faith in the course.

I would be wrong to say that I did not question, everything, and the universe, when I heard of what the diagnosis was.

I could only hear 'Stage Four.' I could only hear how it was in her bones and travelling up her spine. I would look at my girlfriend, travel back in time through ole pictures and letters, moments shared, looking for strength and faith in the outcome The past was definite, the past was concrete. But I could not give my heart hope for a future to be shared with her. And I could not really live through another cancer moment.

I have been jaded.

I have been scarred.

And the past was comforting to me, as the future seemed so bleak.

And I have lost so many good friends to cancer. I have lost so much that I did not think my heart could take another. I hardened my heart of the possibility of losing her. Losing her before the loss, before she, my dear Ingrid, really took to the stage.

I had lost faith in the battle.

I had lost a faith in the unbelievable. And this is a truly horrible thing to lose.

But today; today, could be the day, when faith could be restored.

I went with my dearest Ingrid, for her last radiation treatment. Her cancer is in remission. I have been told of the STAT of the cancer having a 40 percent chance of returning, but for the time, I will relish in that 60 per cent that says it will not. I will take the 60 per cent. It has been a real leap of faith.

My heart has been given a moment.

My soul has been given the unimaginable.

My girlfriend is now on the stage. I had just been too blind with my own pain to see her shining up there.

And I am truly drinking the moment in.

I have been given the gift of Ingrid. I have been given the gift of having my friend for more memories together, more secrets of the soul, more giggles, more hugs and more love of the past, while embracing the future.

We have time.

And I have a restored faith and validation for her being with me for a little while longer.

And maybe, this course, this time, has restored a bit of my faith. Maybe it has been given to me as a gift through the universe. As really how else can I look at it? It is such a gift that has been granted, to me, to her family, to her friends, to her children and to all who are blessed to know her. But most importantly, it is a gift to my dearest Ingrid, a gift, so utterly deserved. And she is, and has seized the day, the moment and her life back. Does not matter what the stage looks like and how big the crowd.

And may I add? The day after Robert played, on the front page of every newspaper in my city the headlines read 'Bob Dylan Plays for 50 people... Once in a Lifetime Concert...' And even though I had already 'known' it was Dylan, the validation was certainly great to read.

But it does have me thinking of back then to now...

And as I listen to my new Dylan CD while writing this,maybe I should pull out my ole copy of the Razor's Edge. And revisit, my adventure with Larry Durrell. It would be interesting to see him again after twenty years.

Maybe sometimes we need to go back before we can move forward.

Maybe sometimes we need blind faith in times when answers are not forthcoming.

Maybe sometimes we need validation for all the ne'er sayers .

Maybe sometimes we must take the leap into the abyss of uncertainty when there is truly no drop net to catch us when we fall.

But I know in my heart, what I will always need; maybe what we all need; is a bit of love, to see us through.

And through love, it gives us the validation of our hopes and fears, through its fierce, passionate, faithful, embrace, so that we may continue to see true stars, in ourselves and of each other .

2007-05-03T13:13:00.000-04:00

So, A Guy Walks into a bar...........

BoyWonder received a new cd in the mail today and it brought me back twenty years.

I was twenty years of age and was to meet up with some friends at a local bar after my shift.The bar was connveniently located in the centre of the city , near the subway and streetcar lines, allowing for all to arrive with the least amount of effort. This bar was the type of place which hosted live entertainment. It was a run down joint which always smelled of stale beer and cigarettes. The live entertainment could be found not only on the stage but with the true objectional type of crowd the 'entertainment' could draw in. Part of the 'fun', could also be found in the notion of dodging the next thrown chair or missing the weave of a drunkard as he passes with a tray full of beers. But the majority of my pals wanted to meet there out of convenience, as it was indeed the devil we knew and if anything we would be 'entertained'.

Most patrons opt for the bench along the wall, as the seats left in the aisles are precarious at best. Sitting in the aisles, you face the possibility of ashes being dropped on your head, from people standing above you or just the inconvenience of being jostled by the crowds racing to the dance floor in case a particularly good song is being played by the band. And as the night wears, it becomes a case of Russian Roulette as someone in the aisle seat is bound to wear a tray of beer as copious amounts of beers are consumed with gusto as the music blares. For certainty you are not going to this bar to talk, you are there to listen to music or you are there to dance, or you are there to drink. In hindsight, I think the bar staff should have handed out rain ponchos for all the poor souls who found themselves on the aisle seats. Rain ponchos and combat helmets would probably be welcomed by first time aisle patrons.

I had arrived early to meet my friends, and the lights were on bright, showing all its warts and blemishes of the establishment. There were scuff marks on the walls, from fights, from hours, days or years past. The black stage was dimly lit, the wobbly tables,with match books underneath trying to set balance to tables which were long past their balancing prime. The tables with endless cigarette burns on the black veneer, along with carved initials, and various choice announcements enscribed with carving knives or cigarette butt burns from patrons past to present day patrons . All of the tables are caked in a film of beer and ash which can never be removed from a waitresses well-soiled rag. The floor was well worn industrial'grey' carpet covering, which ended abruptly at the front, as people preferred to dance on slippery, cracked, painted, marblesk floors.

The stage was raised from the 'dance floor'. It was carpeted as well. It was small and black with a black curtain. There were lights set up in front with various blue and red filters pointing towards the two mics which were set up. There were drums which were set back which were lit from the sides and dim light was coming from the drum itself. It was evident that a small band was playing tonight.

Upon sussing up the pit, and realizing that there would be no problem acquiring a bench seat, as there was a 'No Name' band coming in to play, I opted to sit at the bar and wait for my friends to join me. I found a 'stable' stool and lugged it to the corner of the bar.

The bartender, who was a friend of mine from school, was rushing around, trying to get everything prepped for the night. He called out my name as I sat down. He was harried, and let me know he was just off to change two kegs. He would be back 'in a flash'.

It was a Thursday night, as by most bar standards,the busiest night of the week and the bartender from the night before had left my friend out on the lurch by not completing the closing tasks from the previous night. I knew from the list of things to be completed, that I would not be entertained by my bartender friend.

Equipped with the knowledge of how long it takes to change a keg, from working in a bar myself, I pulled out my book from my knapsack. This was a book which held me so close for the past few days. A book which drew me into a whole new world of characters, I had felt become good friends with, or at least I had fallen in love with one of them. I was head over heels in love with an imaginary character in a book. What had my life become?

I was a bit sad, as I was just a few short chapters away from the end of my book. I was sad, as I would be leaving Larry Darrell.

As each page was read, each word dissolved into memory, and as I drew to the end of the book, it was also bringing me to the end of my voyage.

'Ahh, The Razor's Edge' came a voice.

I look up. "Yeah'

There at the other side of the bar was the lone patron. He had a mop of dark, brown hair, in a black button down shirt and was still wearing his jean jacket. He smiled.

'It's a good read.' he added.

And I nodded. And I told him that I was sad it was ending. My book that is...

Now, dear Blogger, do not get the wrong idea. This man was not trying to pick me up.I know the difference between 'bar talk' and 'let's get into your pants type of talk.' He was just shooting the breeze. And since I did not really want to end my 'relationship' with Larry just yet, and the fact that this person seemed to have read my coveted book, I decided to chat.

And this man was willing to listen, to a young woman go on, at nauseum, about her love of Larry. We talked and we even laughed. We philosophised about philosophy. And then he walked over and joined me.

The bartender, arrived back a minute later and took our drink order. We introduced ourselves to each other and just chatted. It was a fun spur of the moment, grasp a conversation from the air type of moment.

We just talked about what we both had read. And what we had planned to read. It was a fun conversation. We knew there would be an end, as the promise of our friends joining us, certainly would have the great divide of raucous activity between us.

My friends arrived first and scolded me for not grabbing a good seat. They came en mass and proceeded to scope out the best tables and draw them together for our large group. I shrugged my shoulders and said goodbye to Robert as his friends joined him soon after mine. And as bar life happens, groups arrive en mass and a once quiet atmosphere, that seemed so stagnant becomes littered with sound and bodies. The smoke fills a room and the lights are dimmed so that you can not truly see across the room gives a sense intimacy with a group of seventy people. And somehow, through the people, through the sound of clinking of glasses, and the conversation of friends, a building gives off a feeling of a soul and life.

And like what happens in movies, in corny B films, where you say aloud 'As, If! 'Robert took to the stage.

My friends turned to me and said 'Isn't that the guy you just were talking to?

Yeah.
Well, what's his band called?
Well, we didn't talk about that... I, I didn't know he was playing.

Robert started to sing. He started to look, very familiar. He started to sound very familiar. He did not look like the book nerd at the bar. He was so truly comfortable on the stage,filled with a smokey haze, in this wee room with a soul. And with each song it sent tingles down my spine. He was someone I have known forever and yet had not known him at the bar. He was a faceless voice behind a radio. I had not truly heard his voice until now. I heard it over the clinking of the glasses, I heard it over the sound of people ordering their drinks. And right there, is where he was at home. In this wreck of a bar, commanding all to listen, to listen to his ballads, to hear his message through the most commonest of voices.

I sat riveted in the darkened bar with the blue light on the No Name band.
And my heart truly skipped a beat, as how could it not?

How could my heart remain so calm? How could my heart remain calm, when Bob Dylan had just bought me a drink and helped me truly understand the enlightenment of Larry Darrell.

2007-04-23T16:29:00.000-04:00

It Will Come Back to Bite You!

Sixteen years ago I attended the wedding reception of Jim Cambell to his beautiful bride Emma. We were not invited to the service as they chose to elope to the cheesiest place on earth. They wanted it to be as campy as possible and I imagine that they did not want witnesses who truly knew them in attendance, as maybe we would forever judge them on the powder blue ruffled tux,the Elvis minister or the corny promises made in some Temple of Love. But this is want Emma desperately wanted,so Jim aimed to please.

Jim, wanted to marry. Emma could have done with out it. She knew she loved Jim and she knew they were building a wonderful life together. Emma never envisioned the bridal party dream of silks and satin, she knew her heart was true and her love; her quirky love for Jim would last forever. But Emma also knew that her Jim desperately wanted to have a reception a few weeks after their elopement, after the honeymoon, and so she relented to a lavish 'Jim themed' reception to please her true love. The elopement was her gift to her shy self and the reception would be her gift to Jim to share with their friends.

But Jim, also happens to be the cheapest man on earth. He is not frugal but cheap.I would say he finds the word frugal to be too dear of a word for what he is and how he lives. He had notions of how money should be spent and how it can be saved. His notion of a wedding was having everyone together; ambiance, atmosphere and food were really inconsequential.

So with his frugality or with his firm insight as to what he wanted from his wedding reception, he chose to have his reception in a downtown food court, in a mall, on a Sunday, when all stores would be closed.

I had a second guess at the invitation and the location. I can honestly say I have never been to a food court wedding before...and I probably will go through my entire life without attending another. But there was not a mistake and a memory of a food court with orange trays will be molded in with the couple for their entire lives together. I doubt any of us will remember the food, the drink or what the couple wore. I know I will not remember any of the speeches but I think I can safely say,no one will ever forget attending the food court wedding of Jim and Emma.

Jim was so proud with the money saved on the venue and the food. He boasted at how affordable his wedding was.He even had extra money for a karaoke machine. He did not want dancing. He wanted singing.

Now, Jim did not really size up who would be attending his wedding.He did not think of all the comic book artists, and animators and their solitary lives. He could not envision that his friends would not be smitten with the notion of having of karaoke machine. He did not factor in that most of his friends were shy and reserved. He did not think of the uptight, high fashion house colleagues of Emma would not unwind on weekends with a few tunes. He could not fathom anyone not having a secret desire to belt out a few Barbra Streisand or Elvis Presley tunes.

He did not have a back up in case his plans fell a rye. His entire reception was based on the machine and he truly did not take into account of his strictly conservative, self conscious, crowd who were in attendance. No one had a secret longing to be a Broadway singer or a rock star.

But Jim did not see this at first. Jim was giggling in anticipation of all the songs his friends might sing. He had a few up his sleeve as well. He could not wait to sing a few of his songs. He was like a kid. He truly believed everyone had a song. And he was so keen on his ultimate party favour.

After the speeches he could not contain himself. He leapt up and sang a few of his songs he obviously had practiced before the fateful day. He thought his machine would have line ups. He thought there would be people clamouring to sing duets. And to his surprise everyone went out of their way to avoid the the foreboding machine. And with certainty everyone avoided eye contact with the groom as he belted out 'That's Amore' to his beautiful bride.

Everyone kept to their food court tables. No one had any desire to give their best shower song for the echoing sound of the mall and her crowds.

And since there was no entertainment, my husband and I had our table balancing spoons on our noses. And taking up challenges, from our fellow table companions of who could keep their spoon balanced on the edge of their nose the longest.

Jim tried to make eye contact with us but we firmly avoided his looks by concentrating on our spoons.

We watched as Jim began scrambling.
Someone!
Anyone!
Jim went to a few tables where people were looking like they needed entertainment of a song but none took the bait. They were really into basking into the ambiance of the food court.

He finally made it to our table where we were all giggling at how clever we were to have spoons balanced on our noses. He grabbed my husband who dropped his spoon from his nose.
He pleaded with BoyWonder. 'Come on ya gatta have a tune you have always wanted ta saaaaang?'
A BoyWonder just answered 'Weeeellll? No!'and began to lick his spoon again.

'Comme onnn...I am begging ya here...'

Jim fell down on his knees for dramatic effect clasping his hands in prayer with the microphone and looked pathetically up at my spoon clad husband.
My husband relented. 'All right then, and you owe me BIG time!'

BoyWonder grabbed the mike from Jim who sighed a big sigh of relief and walked over to the machine to cue up the first song. My husband remained seated at our table and began to sing. Boy Wonder started off meekly, he started to sing slightly off key. But he slowly started to get a groove happening as no one seemed to be in want of the machine. And our spoon table was cheering him on.

And through just a bit of encouragement, my husband started to get a groove happening. He was living some deep, dark, dream of becoming a lead singer... He started to get a groove, he sang his best Frank Sinatra.
And then, ohhh, and then; he started to experiment with his voice, he started to impersonations, he tried a Scottish accent to 'Whole Lotta Love' by Led Zeppelin, followed by an East Indian accent to The Beatles 'Drive My Car'...and then topped with a Maritimer accent to 'She shook me all night long'...

I was horrified... There was no getting him off the machine. People were coming over to our table with requests.. Each enjoying the next song more that the last... I could not decide if my husband was a Ethel Merman,Tony Bennett, Don Knotts or Paul Lynde.

They, this wedding group who I hoped I would never see again became his adoring public. Swooning with laughter and in song as my husband sang through out the night. And saving Jim and Emma's food court wedding.

I was looking at him and telling him this was going to come back and bite him.

These are typical stories of living with BoyWonder. He is quick to laugh and has no problem mocking himself and all around him.

Recently I was with my daughter at a dental appointment. We had waited months and months to have an appointment with this particular dentist.He is looked upon as the best dentist in the city for children and his affiliation as the lead dentist for a world re known children;'s hospital has put me at ease as I have a fear of dentistry. I had been told that he had excellent bedside manner and this is definitely what I was looking for in my kid's dentist.

We entered the office and were greeted by our dentist. And he put the two of us at ease. He had a a great sense of humour and had my daughter in a fit of giggles through out the examination. He examined her mouth and shared her love of Ringo and suggested maybe 'branching out' and watching a few Elvis films.

And then he did it.

He started to sing. He started to sing songs that were vaguely familiar... He started to sing and it jostled somehing in my very core. it gave me shivers. I had heard these songs 16 years ago.He started to sing, and of all things, seemed to impersonate my husband while cleaning my daughter's teeth.

He couldn't have been there... How would he know Jim and Emma?

But he kept on singing sounding more and more like my husband sixteen years ago.

I looked at him. And certainly could not believe my ears.

I decided to gulp down my pride and take the strange plunge of six degrees of separation.

'Do you know Jim Cambell? ' I ask.

And with that the singing stopped. My dentist turned to look at me.

'Do I know Jim Cambell? Do I know Jim Cambell? Well, Heck! Yeah!!!' and then he laughs. 'Great guy! Cheap. But great guy...'

'Were you? Were you, at Jim and Emma's wedding?'

'Yeah.. You know Jim and Emma? They are a great, great couple... Gawd that was along time ago!'

'Yeah they are great. Haven't seen them in a while...' I retort.

Haaaa! Do you remember that CRAZY guy at the wedding? he laughs.

'What crazy guy are we talking here?' I ask hoping 'it' will just go away.

And then he got up from his chair and pulled off his mask and began to impersonate my husband, hand movements, body gestures, eyebrow moves and all. My daughter held captive in the dental chair and me sitting next to her watching and gasping in disbelief.

As the dentist was giggling and singing 'Drive My Car'.

I could feel my face turn various shades of red.

'You remember that guy? Gawd... I have been impersonating him for years!' he snorts.

'Really! Well, that guy, that guy, is my husband...'

'He's your husband? Really? You're joking! He's your dad?' Pointing to Scooter in the chair. 'That guy is 'a classic.' I have been singing his versions of songs for years!'

And with that, the dentist turned to my daughter and said 'Your dad is a genius...Sheer genius'

So sixteen years later, it has come home to bite ME. As there is no living with him.

The dentist is dying to have us over. He, no doubt has a karaoke machine and we are in for an evening of sheer entertainment as BoyWonder is in the house.

2007-04-12T10:32:00.000-04:00

My daughter collected the mail from our mailbox today.

She went through the pile of bills and triumphantly called out that I had received a letter.

I received a letter today. I received a letter on a cold and dreary day.

As with any letter, I receive, it causes my heart to jump a beat in anticipation on seeing my name scrawled on an envelope. A handwritten letter brings pangs of excitement, or glorious anticipation, of what ideas and sentiments are stored inside.

I always take a moment before opening a letter, as it is such an event.

I always glance at the entire envelope, taking all in, before I open my letter. Sometimes, if I am lucky, the scent of the author remains. And with this, I drink in the letter.

I glance at my letter.

It had my name addressed on it in a penmanship I was not familiar with.

It had come a long way. I can see by the stamps.

It was from South Africa.

Beautiful stamps.

I opened it.

And inside was a letter from a person I have never met. A wife of a friend of mine. A friend whom I have not seen in over twenty years. A friend who would write the most beautiful letters, on the most exquisite stationary, when the mood struck him and who I would write back with great zealousness.

For years and years, we have written each other, almost forgetting what the other person looked like or the sound of our voices. But we knew each other's penmenship. We never likened to e-mails as it would just dullen and cheapen a wonderful experience of true mail. It was a gift we gave to each other.

We both loved the ritual of mail.

But as the years passed, our letters, our gifts of words and insight into each others lives began to dwindle from every few weeks, to every few months, to Christmas letters summing up our lives in a long annual letter, answering questions from the previous Chrismas card. We would give a antidote which only the two of us would understand and love to each other's families. But our Christmas letters were certainly still cherished and most definitely anticipated, And we truly understood how busy life can be and there was always the promise of next year's letter.

She wrote to tell me how much I had meant to her husband over the past twenty years She wrote to tell me he kept all my letters in a shoe box. She wrote to tell me that he spoke of me often. She wrote to tell me that he lived a good life. And she wrote to tell me he had passed away from a massive heart attack. It took him right away. He did not suffer. She wrote to tell me how she was suffering, but consoling herself to the fact he received his wish. 'A good healthy life, lived to the max. He lived every moment'. He was loved by many and he loved all in return. And now he was gone. And she misses him terribly.

My daughter eagerly was by my side asking about my letter. Asking me all about my mail. My exotic letter. And I was short with my daughter, as I wanted a moment to just think of this letter and to think of him. To think of the last time I saw him at the airport bound for South Africa. I wanted to picture him, heed to his velvety voice and to hear his great gregarious laugh, and to be enveloped in the great bear hug he would give, before I buried him to her. I needed a few minutes.
I gave myself the time. I breathed in my memories but just as importantly, I exhaled.

And then I called my daughter back to me and re-addressed the letter. I told her of my letter and of my friend. It gave me comfort to have a wee arm around my shoulder, for her to ask me about him and truly listen to the answers. And then, when she was finished asking and she thought she 'knew' my late friend she added that she was sorry.

And for this, I am comforted.

I am sad. Sad to have lost a friend. Sad for his six children he leaves behind and so heartbroken for his widow.

And tomorrow I will go out, and purhase some exquisite stationary and I will write my late friend's wife a letter filled with memories I had shared with her husband, but most importantly to share the great loss and to keep his memory alive in my heart for a few more paragraphs and send them with a kiss on the long voyage back to South Africa.

2007-04-03T17:07:00.000-04:00

A Man of All Ages

There is an old man, he could be 76 or 96 but I prefer to think of him as a Man of Ages, living in my neighbourhood.This Man of Ages, walks through my neighbourhood and I have observed him for years. His face is old. He has deep, deep, wrinkles, a fine, weathered face, a face which is riddled with character and stories. He is bald with a bit of stubble where side burns should be, he wears horned rimmed glasses from the fifties. He is five feet tall but he seems to loom as he walks up our main strip with purpose. He wears a knapsack on his back and he always dresses in khakis either long kahakis in the winter or army shorts in the summer. He dons a desert hat, over his shaved head and his legs do not have a hair on them. He is always wears hiking boots, with wool socks when he walks. And when he walks, he bounces. His gait is long and his arms firmly to his sides. He walks with determination staring ahead with his head level and his shoulders pulled back and his chest out. He commands the space around him and beckons space ahead of him, all in a walk.

I have been in the park on occasion and have observed him cycling on a ten speed. He wears the unitard and the proper cycling cleats, he is out of his khakis and in a cycling uniform with a cycling cap and no helmet. I have seen him cycle with young whippersnappers in their twenties. I have heard him yell at them in Polish as they whoosh by training together.
I have heard him belt out 'Faster!Faster!' in English as they trail him.
I have heard him use his age as a taunt. I have heard him say' I am an old man, you can not let an old man beat you! Have pride!' He is challenging the young men to keep the pace. To keep his fast pace, and not for one lap, but for twenty uphill. And I stand holding my breath in amazement.

I have never had the opportunity to talk with this man, this Man of Ages, who is so part of the walking scenery in which I live. I have often asked my other friends and neighbours if they had ever noticed 'my' man in hopes of getting an introduction to him. But when I describe him, they draw a blank. They have never seen my man or at least taken note.

I find it odd, as I think he takes up the street, he is a defining person of the neighbourhood in which I live, he commands the world when he bounces by and I find it peculiar that he has gone unnoticed by my group. I think he is king of the world, but apparantly only in my world. A world in which I wished to know part of his story, for there had to be a few good stories in the leathery markings on his face.

The opportunity arose innocently enough this past week. I had the opportunity to talk with 'my' man. I walked into a dollar store to pick up a bottled water,and to my surprise I saw my man at the counter talking with the store owner. I must have looked shocked, maybe, I even blushed, at seeing him, so anchored to the counter, so at ease, and me so unprepared to see him upclose and not at my comfortable distance to observe. He drew me into in the store with a joust.

'Come in ! Come in! Don't be shy, Come in!' he blurts.

And with his comment suspended in the air, I am jostled to my reason for entering the store.

I hear, My Man, call for me at the back of the tiny five and dime store.

'Miiiissis, Miiiissis... This man here, dis store owner is such a lovely man, he is...' he belts out.

And as I approached the counter with my water I agreed with a smile toward the owner.

'Miiiissis, do you know where he is from?'

And I was flabberghasted as it seems like an innocent question enough, but I had not thought of the shopkeeper as anything other than a shopkeeper... A one dimensional, stationary, being... And I have embarassed myself with my lack of knowledge and prejudice in my wee village of a street.

I look at him, my shopkeeper,and have never thought of his accent, never thought of his travels, never thought of him anywhere besides behind the counter.

I then try and save face by stammering out a reply of 'India?'

Miiiissis, he is a long way from where he started...He is from from Kenya.

And with that the shop owner smiled modestly.

Miiissis, Kenya is one of the most beautiful places on earth... And her people? Ohhh her people, are some of the loveliest to walk the planet...

And the shop owner smiled in accordance.

And with that I ask him, my Man of Ages, how he knows this information.

Well, Miiisusssss, I was a mapmaker for the UN. I miss Africa so much, so very much. Such a beautiful beautiful, country. I lived there for a very longtime, a very longtime. And the language? 30 different dialects of Swahili. Oh it is so beautiful to listen to. I come here to talk with my friend, here, and just listen....I owe dis man, dis man, so much, as he brings de winds of Kenya to me. He is a very good man, a very good man.

And with that he, my Man of Ages, and the Shopkeeper took me, dear blogger on a marvellous taste, of an adventure through Africa,but most importantly though Kenya.

And as I finished my bottled water, my ole man, my traveller, mapmaker extrodinaire who speaks many languages, and has no name and no age laughed and said 'You must be going I see.'

And I reluctantly said I did have a few errands ...

And he says with a wink' Do not tell your husband about me, I wouldn't want to make him jealous... And for him to beat me up. I am an old man, afterall.'

And somehow, that comment made me smile all day...As I finally had the chance to meet 'My' man, My Ageless Man, the man with many, many stories to tell...

I can not wait until I have the chance to talk with him again! And maybe it will be with my husband, but hopefully I am alone, as I truly want to listen and hear Kenya and her winds calling.

2007-03-28T13:25:00.000-04:00

Thinking!
Thinking!
Thinking!

ME?

THINKING?

A Thinking Award???

Shucks!Me?

Really?
I would like to thank the Academy!
And My Superb, Patient, husband and my Wonderful,Wistful, daughter and my Wee Rascal of a dog...
Ohhhh... Can't think!
And All who were too kind in awarding me this meme...

I have been very blessed out in Bloggerland. I have been given a wonderful,stupendous award, and I have been terribly embarrassed by it. Embarrassed since it is a Thinking Award. A Thinking Award!!!

This Award has been given to me by Lisa,http://mylifeasacliche.blogspot.com/ and MomMa'amME http://mommaamme.typepad.com/,Ruth,http://ruthdynamite.blogspot.com/, Jenster http://did-you-ever-get-the-feeling.blogspot.com/ http://urban-urchin.blogspot.com/ and http://aftertheball.typepad.com/after_the_ball/. and http://steppingoverthejunk.blogspot.com/ I feel like Sally Fields... You like me? You truly like me??? Clutching my heart... You women rock my world!!!!

All of these powerful, smart amazing bloggers. They have given me this award, just mentioning them, makes me feel unworthy. as their posts are so worthy of such an honour. So, if you can dear readers, please visit their sites for truly, inspirational and Thinking blogging.

My entire blogroll should be nominated for this Thinking Award as all are wonderful writers who continually inspire me with your stories and your insight. I love Blog rolls as they are to me like a book shelf, and often when friends come to visit they look at my book shelf and pick up a book and read the cover... This is what blogrolls are to me...Not a clique or a club, but a live and vibrant bookshelf. I often go to one of my favourite bloggers book shelf and try on a blog for size. See if I can find another Blogger to read...
I digress. I am supposed to limit my vibrant bookshelf to five... as a Thinking Blog... But I am doing six... So much for me being a thinking blogger...

So that being said... Drum Roll, Please!!!!!

Moobs http://moobz.com/ his stories and insights can bring you to tears as well as to laughs in his observations of life. He takes you on Marathons which do not happen, he takes you on archaeological digs and he takes you on an incredible journey of trying to conceive. His writings are heartwarming and honest. Many a time you will leave his post but find yourself thinking of him the entire day.

Kim http://ifitwasntthisitwouldbesomethingelse.com/ This blog follows a smart, vibrant woman who has taken the great challenge or relocating her entire family to paradise. She is an honest and true author. She has taken us down the road of a great loss to suicide. She has taken us on the heartbreak of dealing with a child with a drug problem. Her writing is heartfelt and she can have you pondering about life after reading her posts.

Kim Ayres: http://kimayres.blogspot.com/ This blog is a sheer joy to read. He can take you on such a wonderful journey. I suggest making yourself a 'cuppa,' and sit right down and read Kim. His talk of weightloss is poetry. The way he can sum up a piece of cake or how he can make you hear his daughter's laughter will make you think of this bearded rambling man and have you thinking about cake and clothes in a whole new light.

ABlondeBlogger: I have just recently found http://ablondeandherblog.blogspot.com/ Who recently has had a tremendous loss in her family but has taken the time to shared all. It could also be looked upon as a great guide in helping in the stages of bereavement. She is a thoughtful homeschooling mom, who writes from the heart.

Izzy: http://izzymom.com/Now, if you have not read Izzy this is the perfect time. She is a great, great writer and always thought provoking from her take on toys to parenting. She is thoughtful, smart, woman who conveys honesty about child rearing, and imperfections and foibles in a perfect life. She is a mother and a great force out in the bloggosphere. She was one of the first bloggers I latched onto and have not let go of!

Catherine of http://onthebanksoftheriogrande.blogspot.com/ would be my last nominations. She is such an extremely talented writer. She is in the midst of preparing for her first book launch, one of many! You should drop by and take a read. I have loved Catherine's style and finesse with the English language. You will go to her site and not want to leave!

Now, my nominees... Your job is to pass this honour on to five others. I can not wait to read whom you have elected for the lucky recipients...
Oohhh...

I was just told that part of this award is to link by to the originator of this glorious award... So, here it is...Keep the ball a rolling...

http://www.thethinkingblog.com/2007/02/thinking-blogger-awards_11.html

Once again thank you one and all...And enjoy the new blogs...

2007-03-20T10:43:00.001-04:00

When you first start dating your great love, there is a great suspended period of time. There is laughter and energy swirling about you and your betroved. You can feel the energy in the air. Life is magnetic, and time stands still. You can create change by the sheer joy within your relationship. You are giddy, your senses are more in tune, your being is a bit more aware: you are invigorated. Everything is new, or revisited in a polished gleaming, light. Everything is clean, everything is a bit manic. Everything is somehow more alive and vivid, tantalizingly, sensational. You are invincable.

So, when your love, your great love, asks for you to go and have a dinner with some of his nearest and dearest friends you may jump with zealousness at the notion of breaking bread and sipping wine with the past. You will share your great fortune, you can share your loves' spark. You can take on the past. You have a cheat sheet, as your love knows his friends and can give you an abbreviation of what they are 'about'. You can cut to the chase and get over the small 'howdy do's' and jump right into a ready made friendships at hand.

But my cheat sheet was intimidating. I was to meet only some of the Friends. Friends who seemed to have gone through some unstated battle together. Somehow living through their twenties and surviving, is some marker for battlescars and friendship. I really had not contemplated what was in store, for a young lass, bonding with men who had such a clasp of sentimentality amongst them.

These men filled to the rim with sentimental claptrap have given themselves a monniker. A monniker which can cause a young damsel, such as myself to take pause, their nickname being 'The Louts'. A monniker which was only revealed as I embarked on our journey.

Now for me, at the time, Louts conjoured up an image of belching old men; farting old men, wearing lumberjack shirts and having cigarettes with ashes, draped from their lips. These Louts in my head, had an image of baggy pants which are soiled by a light sprinkling of ash, and the obligatory cardigan with moth holes and a few missing buttons. Not really part of the young, hip, culture that we, my love and I were a part of.

I was caught up in our work culture, I was caught up in our moments of playing pool, dancing til dawn with my roomates, I was caught up with him and me. The way we were in our immediate surroundings. We would work late and stay out late and then have breakfast at a funky diner together. We did not need rest. We had love. And we had stolen moments as he worked across the hall from me. We had endless moments of spontaneity which left a sense of adventure lurking in the air.

But now We were now going to embark on a road trip to meet his ole Lout friends. We were going to take our love out of the confines of what we knew. We were going to try and fit ourselves in with part of our old worlds, our old friends who knew nothing of this energy. And do the 'old' really respect the young?

We were going to meet his old friends for dinner.The friends who have made an effort through the years to keep in touch. The friends in which spontaneity no longer happens for. The friends whose lives are outside my sphere. The friends who are planning a dinner to get to know their friend's new love. Or maybe it is just another word for interrogation of me? Will permission be granted for me to enter the inner sanctum of Loutdom or the beer pit.

So equipped with a cheat sheet of names and maybe a quick antidote of what summed up the people, the men, at the dinner we picked up our first Lout en route to dinner. He was young? He was handsome? He was tall and fit, he was a charismatic, lawyer who worked for the Crown, his name was Jason. He did not seem like my ideal of what a Lout could be but maybe looks can be deceiving? Maybe he had a cardigan under his jacket? He was happy to see us, and was equally accommodating to having his 6" 2 body stuffed into the back of BoyWonder's 240SX.

The conversation, we had going north was fun and this friend of BoyWonder's had put me at ease with his easy banter. We are all laughing and enjoying the moment of a crisp, new friendship and he is helping me along with my cheatsheet.

When we arrive at our destination I am feeling a bit more at ease after conquoring my first Lout. It did seem like a gauntlet. Three Louts not including my date BoyWonder or Jason. There was Pierre LaRound, who was only called 'Laround' by friends. He was a short, man with large girth with pants pulled up to his armpits, a sight that all had warned me about. He had a booming voice and was the head of the geography department in his high school. And he seemed to use the word 'Fuck' as an adjective, a verb, an adverb, pronoun and a noun sometimes all in the same sentence. I often wondered throughout the evening how he could teach a class without his explanatives. There was LaRound's athletic, quiet girlfriend Jane, a biology teacher at the same high school as Laround, who ran marathons with no difficulty at all. She was athletic, stern, strong and very quiet to the gruff, and extremely loud, LaRound.

Then there was a friend who's knickname was Frog. He was a 'old school', rich boy. He was a tall developer who had a charming Kennedyesk smile in his finest preppy clothes. He had a twin bother whose nickname was Monkey, who was not available for my interrogation as he was living in London. Tatler magazine had just done a writeup on them, these two animal monnikered Louts, as the most diserable, handsome, bachelors at the time. This gave the friends, the Louts, endless fodder for muddslinging as the night carried on.

Last but not least there was a friend named Hydra who was the fastest ,rising, young, star in the United Nations. A man who boasted of his knowledge to always carry extra shirts in a knapsack to parties, as when he danced, he sweat though his clothes. Hydra informed me, that the best party was hosted by my BoyWonder in which Hydra changed his shirt seven times through the course of the night. Apparently that party had become a legend in its own rite.

The night of interrogation was fun and electric. There was endless laughter and great quips back and forth.There was a great sense of the past but even more was a promise of a future. There was talks of foreign policy, there was talk of injustices, just as there were talks of victories and the amazing spirit of the human soul. It was a night of past jokes, and future jibes. But mostly, it was about a commadery of friends/Louts who had seen much together but much more was promised in their future. And a future of introducing me to the other seventeen Louts who could not make the evening due to geography.

And when we left we were feeling elated.

And as we hugged and kissed goodbye we promised to do it again soon.

And then Jason, BoyWonder and I filed into the 240SX. We talked and laughed and sang to The White Album in the rain when 'it' happened.

We were in a rush as we were to go to another party the three of us. Another meeting of the minds...

But 'it 'happened.

My BoyWonder said' Great! An accident.'

It was raining out.

I said 'Oh' with disappointment and turned down the music.

But then, I noticed something after about a minute...

I rolled down the window... and stuck my head out.

Wait a minute.
There are no emergency lights?
There are no cops?
There is no ambulance.

I get out of the car and rush to the accident.

I pass twenty cars until I get to the front.

And there 'it' is; the accident.

A wrecked car and a truck.

I then see two teenagers embedded on the shoulder of the road. I run to both to make certain they are breathing. They are about 6 feet from each other. Neither one is moving. But both are breathing.

I reassure them that everything is going to be okay and I am just going to get help.

I then rush back in a clear voice and say loudly with conviction.

Does anyone have a cellphone?
Can anyone call for help.
Call 911!
Can anyone call for help?
Does anyone know first aid. I am looking for one more person to help.
I address every car on the way back to BoyWonder.

And then I reach our car. I lean in. I know BoyWonder does not know first aide so I say 'there has been an accident and no cops or ambulance yet.'

Jason, do you know first aid?
Yes.
I need your help.
And with that he gets out of the back seat and runs with me to the boys.I explain that one of them is scalped and the other one could have broken his back. I'll take the back victim if you are okay with the blood?

And with that, the two of us attended these teens on the road.

It was raining and I was using my cape to shield the boy I was with. I made certain to block his view of his friend for I feared that shock could take over if he saw him. He was a country boy who had just visited my city. I quickly asked him a barrage of question about the city, what he saw, what he liked: anything but what had just happened.

I talked and talked with this boy. I watched BoyWonder who kept far back so that Jason and I could do our work. I could see him looking at the totalled car and tried to figure out how these boys ended up on the side of the shoulder. I could see him doing the physics when finally help arrived.

The police and the ambulance arrived at the same time. They asked who was the worst off and I pointed over to Jason.

The cops were fantastic.They came over to my victim and asked him his name. And if it would be okay to call his parents. And reaffirmed to him that he was going to be okay.

My sixteen year old guy, Marshall, the boy who had just been to the big city, the boy who went about ninety miles an hour out the back window, and had been so brave, started to cry upon hearing that he could' talk with his Mommy'. I told him that his mom would be waiting for him at the hospital. And it was going to be fine. And with that the second ambulance arrived, taking Marshall away.

Our threesome, piled back into the car and sombrily drove to the next party which we were expected at. We arrived three hours late and left within the hour as we were in no mood after what we just had undertaken.

It took three weeks for the blood to be washed clean from Jason's hands just as long as our scalped victim was in the hospital. Marshall was the worst off as he did not break his back but did shatter his pelvis. He ended up being in hospital for four months. We learned all this through our dinner friends, for as luck would have it, they, Laround and Jane, were their school teachers.

We learned that the driver of the car, was a girlfriend of Marshall's and that she was charged with theft as she stole her sister's car to take her friends to the city. We learned that she and her girlfriend were annoyed that the boys had fallen asleep in the back of the car. We learned that they tried to teach the boys a lesson by playing chicken with a truck. We learned had the boys had worn their seatbelts they would have died as the volocity in which the car hit the truck and the spinning would have snapped them in two with just a lap belt. The boy who was scalped went through the small side window and Marshall through the much larger backwindow.

It was my introduction to Jason and some of the Louts. And it was a story that had us bound together with a noticable battle scar.

17 years later, spontaniety no longer exists in my world. Everything is planned. And I can not remember the last time I really wanted to play pool. But the Louts are still in our lives, wherever in the world they are, as they write me and keep me a breast of their lives. Our home is the beacon for when one returns from an adventure and they all gather to regail in the triumphs of those who were abroad and those who stayed behind. And I am sorry to say that baggy pants, nor a cardigan has yet to appear. But I suppose in time they will.

And as I pause and reflect, I am so glad, that I had the folly of trusting love, my BoyWonder and the cheat sheet. I suppose being young, foolish, and in love does have its bonuses.

2007-03-08T10:20:00.000-05:00

A Knight In Shining Armor?

I was on an errand downtown, in a rough part of town.
I was focussed on my tasks at hand. I only was thinking of completing my errands and not taking in my surroundings. My mind was occupied with my agenda, when my inner world was invaded.
My concentrated brain was distracted by an whistle.
A whistle.
A catcalling whistle.
'HooHoo...' the kind of learing whistle of a construction worker trying to impress his coworkers whistle.
'Come on... I am an old, married mother for goodness sake...' thought I. And with that discounted comment my mind revisited my list.
And then I hear it AGAIN!
'HooHoo.'
Maybe my first look of annoyance did not get the point across.
I am a lone woman on an urban street.
I look to see where this, assaulting, whistle is coming from... I turn and give my nasiest, furrowed, don't think of messing with me, punk, scowl.

Wait a minute!
Nahh, It couldn't be?
The only person on the street is a guy leaning out of a hearse.
A hearse?
'Hoohoo' he whistles again... and adds 'Hot stuff, baaaabbbby!' Raising his eyebrows.

I see my assailant hanging out of the window, a broad smile beaming across his face.

I rolled my eyes for good measure.

And finally my thoughts crash with the influction of his voice... he says 'Pennnnnduuuuullummmmmm...Pendullum, don't you recognize me? 'he laughs.' I saw you blocks away. I had to pull a 'uee' to get to you...You haven't changed a bit!'

Whaaa? I know this guy? He knows my name... And I have not the foggiest who he is... I now have to focus on THE face and not THE hearse... But the hearse is downright distracting gleaming and sparkly just as the man who knows my name.

I approach the polished, back empty, hearse with laughing lunatic in the front who seems to know me quite well and is having great fun with this moment.

Billy Sheans! Pendullum, it's me, Billy Sheans!

I can not believe my eyes. And it shows. I am scanning this man for some semblance of a boy I once knew twenty years ago.

Billy Sheans from high school.
Billy Sheans who spent fifth period spare with me in grade thirteen.
Billy Sheans, the guy that used to play tuba(A&W theme song) at the bus stop to keep me entertained as we waited in the cold, cold, dark, winter nights after band/choir practice.
Billy Sheans.
Billy Sheans who hosted the worst permed Afro I have ever seen on a white man.
Billy Sheans who used to streak his hair.
Billy Sheans that used to wear really tight jeans and have a pic in his back pocket.
Billy Sheans who wanted to be a cop.
Billy Sheans who told the absolute best jokes with his 'Marty Feldmanesk' eyes.
Billy Sheans my olde confident.
Billy Sheans who always had an ear for a problem.
Billy Sheans who always had a song on his whistle.
Billy Sheans who always had a thoughtful word.

Ahh, that Billy Sheans?

'Billy Sheans??? How the heck are you?' still looking at the perfectly polished man before me.

'Geez pendullum, I was afraid you were going to throw something at me!' he says as he gets out of the car.

And with that, I laughed, a bit manically, as he does not know how close he came to getting a snowball between the eyes!

He laughs and throws his arms around me in an olde bear hug saved for the very oldest of friends.

And while he talked I found my ole high schoolbuddy, all grownup in the mourning suit. His hair was slicked back. He looked refined. He looked older;dignified. He had an ease of talking. He took off his gloves and just leaned against the hearse as if it were just an old car, a noble steed.

Billy had always dreamed of becoming a cop. He fell in love with the notion long before he met me in grade nine. He had always wanted to be a hero. Someone you could count on. Someone who would be 'there'. And what better than a cop?

And when he met me and discovered that my father was a Staff Sargent of Detectives he had died and gone to heaven. He would often grill me about my dad. He would always ask 'How 'Sarg' was doing.'
He would talk continually about the prepwork to his becoming a cop. He would list off the requirements. He would work on the things he had control over.

And the physical training he put himself through. He worked out everyday at lunchtime, he jogged and he did weights. He was going to be a cop.

Billy Sheans got his driving license on his sixteen birthday to prove that he would have had a clean driving record for many years before he placed his application.

For good measure he would throw in that he loved a good coffee shop, so the cops would have to want him.

And always with a smirk, he would add while nudging me in the ribs, that he, Billy Sheans, being a man in a uniform, 'a boy in blue' would suit him and the colour of his eyes. He would make a fine looking police officer, he would boast.
'It's all in the uniform, 'he would chide.'Chicks love a man in a uniform!'

Geez, when I think of how he would go on and on about it...It can still make me smile.

And as a teen I was slightly jealous, as he knew his path, he had it all mapped out. He had his dream, unlike me. I was so scattered back then. I would listen to him and be in awe of how he 'knew' himself. I would be in awe of the fact that he had a notion of what he wanted to be when he 'grew up'. A man in uniform. Clean,polished, ready to take on the world.

And now here we are grown up.

To find Billy in a suit, a grey and black mourning suit with white gloves and not a blue uniform, well, it did throw me off course. But then I do not know what judgement could be made of me, as I did not wear a noticable uniform and my life is still ever so chaotic and unmarked.

'Billy, I, I, I,ah? I just can not believe it...What are you doing now?' with a wide grinning smile, ignoring the white elephant in the shape of a hearse.

'I am a funeral director/mortician man...'

Wow... Ahh, what happened to becoming a cop?

Well, they said I was way too short, too thin, blahblah blah... I was never going to get any taller... And well, I gave that up...Just couldn't change the system ya know... I know they have their reasons... And I did try to become a firefighter but the same deal...

But Billy,I mean a funeral director... How did you go on that path? I would never have thought....

Nor would I? Who would have thought William Sheans, Funeral Director...

'William... Now that would throw me for a bigger loop... William?'

Nah... Can't change me, that much...Well, actually they call me, 'Bill' around the office...

'Those who can talk, call you Bill...' came my wicked retort.

'Hahaha...' he said.

You're still Billy to me...

And when I left him, I thought he did have the perfect job for Billy. A job in which he could never really have prepared himself in high school. Bill Sheans picked himself up, after a dream had 'failed', exchanged his blue uniform, for one that I would think could require as much courage and fortitude.

I could see his strength for people as they came to him in times, of unmanagable, grief. I could see him guiding them through and helping plan the end of various people's journeys. I could see him help those who are lost. I could see him being strong and brave everyday dealing with other human's sorrow. I do see him being a hero.

And when I think about it, the uniform he wears presently,it does suit his big, expressive, blue eyes quite magnificently.

I guess he's right.

'Chicks love a man in a uniform.'

2007-02-25T21:08:00.000-05:00

Oscarina She a won...

Kiss yer mudder kissw yeer fadder...
now lay a fat one on meya!!!!
Doin such a happy dance!!!!
Cryin''

Okay...

My GalPal WON the OSCAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!

Best Animated Short....

The Danish Pooooooooeeetttt!!!!!

Can you hear my gleee????
And tears of happiness????????

If not please read my old entry ...
http://dribblingwitt.blogspot.com/2007/01/road-which-leads-to-oscar-last-week_31.html

2007-02-21T10:12:00.000-05:00

Up the street from us live two kids, Sophia and Max.They have known Scooter since she was about three years of age. They live with a mother who is a buyer for a high fashion store and a copywriter for a father. Their dad is the primary caregiver as their Mom has to go into the office and their father has the luxury of working through the house. He is in charge of the endless array of pandamonium that exists, on a daily basis, in his humble home.

Sophia's name does not fit the image of 'a Sophia'. When I think of the name, Sophia, I think of sun dancing on the lake, soft gentle winds rippling the water, a seagull in the distance, I think of meadows filled with butterflies maybe throw a few bunnies hopping along for good measure. This is how I perceive the name Sophia as it dances off the tongue like sweet butter and equally blends with the scenery I have painted .

The Sophia I know does not fit the image of the name I just painted. The Sophia I know is: a tornado. The Sophia, I know, is a hailstorm with a few fallen trees and maybe a car pinned underneath with screaming children for good measure. She is a force. A force to be reckonned with.

Sophia is a rough a tumble type of girl. She excels in most sports, but her favourites are karate, soccer, skateboarding and hockey. Her favourite past times are throwing farts, watching the scariest movies around and retelling the most gruesome parts ver batum to anyone brave enough to listen.

Her mother hoping to have some semblance of a daughter has forced her to have to have long hair but as a concession Sophia may wear it the way she sees fit. And braided and to the sides make it easier for her to place a hockey mask on.She has never worn her hair loose as what would be the point to draw attention to the bain of her existence. She proudly boasts on the fact that she does not own one dress. She will only wear boys clothing. And she will normally tell you this, through 'belch speak' to drive the point home.

Sophia is not 'trapped by the fixings of being a girl'. She swaggers in a room and firmly chest butts her friends. She is loud and gregarious. She can belch like the best of them and at dear age of nine has all the confidence in the world. She always has a group of boys waiting in attendence for an impromptu game of shinney before the bell rings for school and She is always up to telling or listening to a joke about poo or is willing to hear any conversation about other 'nasty' bodily functions.

Her brother Max is the opposite. He being two years younger is unsure of himself. He always has his eyes cast towards the pavement and he is always a few paces behind his sister and father on the walk to school. He never runs and always walks like he is about to discover gold under his father's shoes never casting his head up.

Max has a learning disability which has hindered his ability to communicate and as a result is a pretty solitary boy. He is quiet and extremely shy. His voice is rarely heard in the daily routine of their day. He is blonde and gentle. His hair is long but with the massive amounts of curls he has it gives the impression of a big wig. There is something purely angelic about him. He is like a beautiful, sweet, Cherub.

His sister Sophia has given him all the Barbies that were foolishly bestowed upon her by relatives. (Friends would never have made that mistake as they would fear the pummelling they would get for mistaking Sophia for a girl.) Max loves his Barbies, he loves the gowns, he loves the sequins and he loves their accesories. He can play for hours with his dolls and loves the world of fantasy where everything comes out fine in the end.

My daughter knows the two well. Scooter used to be a classmate of Sophia's and as a result had been over for many a playdate in the past blending between the two personalities. She would be 'Wendy' to Sophia's rough and tumble Peter Pan and then would go and coax Max out of his shell for some quality Barbie time. Scooter was the only friend of Sophia's who paid any kind of attention to Max. And Max coveted the time they had spent together.

Seems like a pretty distant time as the years have fallen away. My daughter no longer attends the same school as Max and Sophia and playdates together are a thing of the distant past. But we do still see them at the local ice cream shop from time to time or on en route to various events.

Valentine's Day was approaching and Max's mother, Jean, thought that she should be the parent to take her son out and purchase some Valentines for him to give out to his classmates. She knows how sensitive her boy is and wanted to take him away from the abrasive Sophia so that he may take his time and pick out the cards to his liking.

When at the store Max protested.

'I do not want to give out Valentine's Day Cards!' he said.

And Jean thought it was due to his shy nature. She tried to talk with her son about it. She tried to tell him how sometimes it is just important to let people know that you 'like' them. 'Just a token Max that's all it is.'

And he said he didn't want to do them. There was no one he would wanted to give a Valentine to.

And his mother said that it was fine, but she still had to buy some for Sophia as she wanted to give out her cards to all of her friends. And Jean added that she wanted to get something special for her husband Bob. Because, Valentine's is also about love... And I loooooove your dad Max! and I looooove you too, even if you do not want to give out Valentines.' And with that she kissed he son on the top of the head and headed off to complete her tasks in the card shop.

And as she was looking around Sophia's cards, she found her son walking around the store with the biggest box of chocolates in the shape of a heart. His mother filled with pride as she thought the chocolates were for her. She felt a success in her heart as felt she did jostle out the notion of what Valentine's was about.

'He didn't want to give them out to his friends, he wanted to give it to his ole mom,' she thought and with the notion so firmly planted in her heart, it caused a tear of pride to swell in her heart which lead to a tear to form in her eyes.

'Ah, Max. That's a pretty big box of chocolates. '

And Max agreed. He added, 'They are for someone pretty special. Just like you getting one for Dad!'

And with a bit of presumption she said 'Honey, I do not need a box that big!'

And Max looked at the woman who gave birth to him as though she were a Martian. 'You???They are not for you!' came his indignant retort.

'Ohh? ' trying to hide the dissappointment in her voice.'Are they for your teacher Miss. Douglas. She is a really good teacher'

Well, Miss Douglas is a good teacher but they are not for her.

Well?

Well? What?

Honey, who are these chocolates for?

They are for Scooter.

Scooter? Down the street Scooter? Down the street Scooter who you have not played with in about a year and a half, Scooter?

Yes Scooter.

Right then.

And so he went to the counter and purchased his big box of chocolates for my daughter.

He went home and painstakenly made a heart and a wee note that just said
'Love, Max'.

And then he instructed his mother that he had to give it to Scooter immediately.

And with that, Mother and Son came to our door.

The door bell rings. I hear a thudd, and a scampering, as I go to answer the door.

And there on our outside table is a big box of chocolates with a giant red ribbon and Jean standing in front of me sheepishly smiling.

I look at Jean and she laughs.

'Ahh, Max wanted to drop this off for Scooter'

'How Sweet! Where's Max?

Ahh, he is under your porch?

Under my porch? and I go out in slippers, in the snow and look for him.

Max?And I can see the halo of his hair... He is looking down and refuses to show his face.

Max?

'Yes.' comes a meak voice. through his jacket.

Max? Did you bring this for Scooter?

Yyyyes!

Do you want to see Scooter?

Oooh, Okay...

Just a minute, then

And with that I call up to my daughter who is in the middle of a playdate. She comes bounding down with her friend in tow.

Yes, Momma?

Ahh Honey, Max is here and he kinda brought you something...

What?

It's on the front porch...

And with that she flies out in her stocking feet.

'Ohhh! Wow...' She says and she looks at Jean. 'Ahhh?Where's Max? '

Oh he is under the porch.

Under the porch?

And with that my wee gal calls for Max.

Jean points to where he is.

My daughter bolts down the stairs before I can tell her to take heed with her in her socks.

My daughter kneels down. Max?Max you are so funny! Come out! Thank you for the chocolates? Do you want one? She looks up and sees her girlfiend shyly standing on our porch in her bare feet... Max? This is my friend Jamie. Jamie this is my good friend Max... Ohh, you don't want to come out? Ohhh that's okay. Thanks for coming over Max!

And with that Scooter rustled his hair and rushed up the stairs and into the house with her playdate ...

Jean laughed. She had to recount what lead her to my porch just as I have recounted it to you dear Blogger.

Max did comeout from under my porch and he looked like the King of the World. His head held high and a certain glow to the cheeks which I had not seen before... And Jean even commented on the same...As he took her hand and made her skip back home.

He conquered purchasing the chocolates, he conquered making an extra special Valentine, he conquered our stairs, he conquered having a voice that stood alone and he conquered his first of many hearts.

Love is always bestowed as a gift…

2007-02-13T17:02:00.001-05:00

Love is always bestowed as a gift…freely, willingly, and without expectation...We don't love to be loved; we love to love." – Leo Buscaglia

When Ingrid started to speak. I wanted 'it' all to go away. I wanted 'it' to be washed away, for this diagnosis, this prognosis to be a horrible, horrible mistake. I could not hear Stage Four cancer. I could not hear 'it' is in her bones and 'it' is tingling up her spine. And yet, I heard all of it. I can not imagine that we are entering our final act.

I could hear how scared she is. I could hear how she can not leave her children. I could hear how young her kids were and how she would not be remembered. I could hear how she was afraid of vanishing from their lives and from their memory.

But I could not cry in front of her. I could not repeat Stage Four Cancer. I could not repeat the facts of the cancer, I could not utter that it was in her spine. Because then it would filter through to my heart.

'Right then...' was all I could say... 'And I am here... Ohhh, Honey I am here... There, there... I am here...Chemo, I am there... I will hold your hand, I will wipe the tears...'

If I repeated 'Stage Four' it would be true. And my heart, my heart...

And then she jolted me with 'I do not know what I was expecting Pend. Why did I ask him? Why did I need to know so soon? I foolishly thought okay... Radiation; chemo; bring it on and I would kill it. The treatment would kill it and I could move on... He told me initially that the cancer, the cancer probably caused the herniated disk... And that is why my back hurt so much. And well, ha! it wasn't a herniated disk, it was the cancer. It has spread. And you know my mother keeps on saying we can fight this... But Pend it is in my spine... And I look at my kids...'

'Ingrid, you know you do not even look sick.' I try to add.

She laughs.

'I have lost all my hair. Pendullum.'

'Ingrid, you have not. '

And with that she takes off her wig made of human hair dyed to match her own unique colouring. She takes off her wig and I sit beside her and run my fingers through her remaining hair. Hair that used to be a mane. Hair that was so full ;as kids we would make fun of it as being just a blob no matter what she did with it.

'Oh My dear sweet Ingrid. You look like a punk. A bonafide punk mohawk is what you have... A rockin mom! My, sweet, sweet, Ingrid.. The queen of Prep, looks like a punk...Who would have thunk?'

And with that she laughed... and I wiped her tears.

and she kept her wig on her lap.

"We try and keep it light around the house. We do not talk about it. Jim cooks and I play with the kids. He's a really good cook!'

We talk about her family and mine. We talk about how my Scooter looks exactly like me as a child. And we laugh about our cherished, glorious, ever so distant past.

And she left me and we are to have lunch this week. We are to spend precious afternoons together and we are to try and get as much time in before... Before...

My heart is broken.

My heart feels as though I can not make it through.

But I must.

I know. I know what lies ahead. I have gone down this road too many times before.

I can not cry in front of her. I can not make the cancer go away. I can not make the pain go away. I can only be with her. I can only be with her when it hurts and when it is not so bad. I can hold her hand and I will be there. For that is what I need and want to do.

But it hurts.

It hurts so bad that you cry in the shower when no one is around. You cry and you cry a valley of tears. You do not think you have anymore tears and then they start all over again. Your chest aches and your heart is being tugged and it feels as though it will burst out of your chest. And sometimes it catches you when you least expect it, like putting away the groceries or a song that brings you back to a time that was. And you are back to sobs that have to be muffled in case your famly hears as they will try and make the pain go away...
Ans they will be helpless as the pain must stay with you. It will be there slowly, dulling and you will be able to breath again.

I will be able to breath again without the sobs. I have learned this. I have learned that it hurts, the heart aches and then you can exhale without as much pain as the last time. I will be able to draw air in without it causing me to wince. I know this.

And sometimes we look for answers. Look for just a sign on how to get by and it happens...

And today after meeting my daughter for lunch in -30 Celcius weather I began to walk home with my head focused on the white salt stained pavement below my feet. The streets are abandoned, as who would brave such weather? I began to walk alone and in the chill of winter voices tend to carry. And I could hear the voice of a man and a woman talking. I looked up.

The elderly man was walking ahead of his wife. He was walking with a cane a few feet ahead of his wife and he was aggitated. You could see it in the way he held his head and in the stance of his walk. He looked strong and determined and his wife looked frightened.

I could hear him say'So, if I fall I fall. Such is life. I pick myself up, wipe off the snow and carry on. '

I can not hear his wife as she has her mouth muffled by a scarf. But I can see the worry in her eyes. and as they pass me I can hear...

'Wha? So I get hurt! You can not stop me from falling! If I fall; I fall. Please let me walk. And if I hurt myself, I hurt myself. I will still want to walk. You can not stop these things, they happen, and I not going to live my life in fear of what could happen if I fall. I need to live, Love. I need to do this. '

And so it is.

I will carry on. I will walk and I will stumble along the way. And indeed I will hurt myself. But it is so very nice to have all of you there to help wipe away the tears.

Thank you so very much for all your beautiful, beautiful comments. I have cried through each and every one of them. And I know I will revisit them a great deal through all of this....

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

And to all of you on Valentine's Day... My heart has been helped along the way by each and every one of your comments... You have helped pick me up along the way...
I will look up to the stars... the heavens and the blue blue window beyond the stars...
And where I can not change the course... I am so glad that you all have come along .. Love you all!

2007-02-08T14:05:00.000-05:00

How Do You Mend A Broken Heart?

I remember Grade Eight and having to go to Guidance Class. Our teacher/instructor tried very hard to reach us. He tried very hard to express that we should understand the concept of what satisfaction was, and what life could be. He tried to tell us to embrace happiness when it came because it is a gift and a blessing not to be overlooked and taken for granted. He was faced by our jaded group; our group of hormone-infested tweens; tweens who were practicing our best scowls, while slouching in our chairs, looking through our Farrah Fawcett/Peter Frampton hair. We already knew it all.

He would try and reach us by asking through questions as a forum. He would ask 'what is satisfaction?'. And he would receive the giddy response in return. He would roll his eyes and try to bring us out of our infinite knowledge by suggesting that satsifaction could be attained by reaching the bathroom when you really needed to go. He suggested that satisfaction could come in the form of a really great candy bar if you were really hungry or a great cold glass of water on a very hot day. He tried to suggest that satisfaction could be found in a sunrise after a very rough storm. Or in a good belly laugh after a really good cry. He tried to stress that satisfaction could be attained with small things as well as the big things in life. And if we embraced certain sensations, certain moments they could encapsolate a wonderful moment or at least a better time when things were rough. A moment of satisfaction or happiness should never be overlooked.

He continued on with our class, once a week, trying to guide us along the slippery road into teendom. He tried to help us pick our schools of choice and tried to help us realize that we could all reach our true potential. 'We could be anything. Just think of the possibilities. The world was our oyster.' He would exclaim with an earnest zealousness as we filled out our forms with hopes of admission to a high school of our choice.

But it was not all rose coloured glasses when he dealt us with. He told us to look around the classroom, as a great deal of us, may not make it to our 40th birthday. He told us by the age of twenty-five at least one of us would be dead. And this was greeted by the obligatory 'As if' And 'Pahshaw" that often comes with youth. The doubt of us, not living forever, was not part of our venacular. He was written off with any crediblity after such a remark.

Ingrid and I sat beside each other in all of this. We were never really the vocal girls. If fact we were quiet and I suppose square. We never drank, we didn't smoke, we didn't 'put out'. We sang in the choir, we played musical instruments, we read. We got by and even though we were not the loud girls somehow we were popular. I suppose it was something in the way we wore our lumberjackets and sassoon jeans. Maybe the way Ingrid's braces reflected in the summer sun, or my perms were a thing of beauty to behold. We were never without. We had each other and the attentions of others.

We went through the years together. Heck, we knew each other since we were four years of age. We had countless sleepovers. We were welcomed and lived in each other's homes often preferring the other person's life. We had gone through all our classes together. We knew how each other's thoughts and had a great love of sarcasm and our past was safely embedded in the countless letters that Ingrid had kept safely stored in bankerboxes underneath her bed through out the years. Her parents lived the straight and narrow always safe, with the ever calm presence of Ingrid's father playing the piano. There was a calm pressence there.

My House by contrast was a bit unruly, with boarders and shift work. There were four kids and there were always playdates which filled th house with a certain rauccousness. My father was a cop and the possibility of his demise was always on the surface of our family's day to day life as it could be a part of his job. Life at my house could be a bit unsettling. But full of loud fun.

The reality of the unexpected did strike us after the guidance speeches as Ingrid's father died in a plane crash the following summer. We went through a pretty hard time. As her father died just after dropping her family off at their family cottage and was just returning across the lake to pick up their luggage. A heart attack on the way to pick up the luggage. A heart attack which saw him crash into the lake 25 miles from shore.

We were given our first lesson of mortality happening at a pretty young age. Her father was a young 48 year old man. A man who would always be remembered for playing the piano and engaging us in witty, intellectual, conversation. He would be remembered for building his airplane in the backyard, his love of the English language and the University in which he taught it in, and most importantly he would be remembered for his infinite love of his family. It was so hard not to have him in our lives. The sanctity of reliability was shaken from our very core.

A young broken heart. And as the years have gone on I have attended a great deal of funerals for my friends from my school. I have lost two to suicide. An old boyfriend of mine took his life. I have lost three friends to car accidents. And the irony resonates to my heart whenever I attend a funeral, that maybe our bitter, guidance teacher did have something in his lessons.

He never did teach how to find the words of comfort for the widows, the husbands or the mothers of the children left behind. He never taught how to comfort the broken hearted.

I have had a great deal of things that I have 'satisfaction' with. I have known a great deal of happiness. I have never had a problem with seizing the day, and enjoying my 'moments' of satisfaction for indeed sometimes they do sustain you and carry you through the roughest of times.

But I have known much sadness. I have lost too, too many friends, to cancer and other tragic maladies. I have lost them before the age of forty and a great deal of me is bitter about it. I am so sad that I can not call my lost friends and talk with them. I am sad that I will not have the chance to have a glass of wine and watch our children play and grow up together. I am so sad that my friends' children will not truly have a memory of their departed mothers and fathers, or as me as their auntie. I am so sad some moments were taken for granted.

And today, Ingrid unexpectantly came to my door.

Ingrid rang my doorbell.

And I answered the door. I looked at her in surprise.

And she cried. And I hugged her on my doorstep with the cold chilling wind on her back and in my chest she wept and I was waiting for her to get her breath, waiting to hear what was so terribly wrong in her world.

She said as she sobbed...

'Ohhhhhh Pendullum. I am so very scared. I am so very, very, scared. I have cancer. I have cancer, Pendullum. I need you.'

And dear reader....

I am so very scared.

I am so very, very, sad to what road lies ahead.

And I do not know how to mend this broken heart.

No one gave me that important life's lesson...

2007-01-31T15:04:00.000-05:00

The Road Which Leads to Oscar

Last week the nominees were announced for the 79 Academy Awards. And I have to painstakenly admit I do not take notice as I did before the birth of Scooter. I think there is something about having a kid and only seeing the films in the 'animated feature' category that truly takes the zing out of the Oscars.

The Oscars resonnate a past life when I was part of the adult culutre. I would have seen all the films in all the categories. I would understand all the in jokes about the various films broadcast over the live feed. I would have been part of the Oscar club. I would have my bets on who should win and who would win.I would stay upuntilthe last category was won.

But now, I find, I turn on the television the day of the event. I still watch the parade of glamourous stars wearing their beautiful designer dresses, who have hired sylists to ensure that they do not make a fashion faux pas for the glorious day. There is not a hair clip out of place and all dresses could be swapped for the next there are no mistakes or true mishaps to be had.And their PR people can get them the best seats in the house, as well as the best commentary from Joan Rivers and her daughter. I do not have a vested interest. And I feel as though the event as been orchestrated so perfectly ; the drama and entrensic theatre have been drawn out of the Oscar experience.

So when the nominations were announced, they went unnoticed by myself in my tattered blue jeans and black turtleneck sweater with silver hooped earings.

That is, until my husband called upstairs as I was putting Scooter to bed. He called up with urgency and with a great deal of excitement in his voice... He called up to say our friend had been nominated for an Oscar.

Now, when you hear that your friend has been nominated for this prestigious award you can become giddy. You get all excited. You get to where your heart grows a moment, it swells in your chest, you palpatate with pride and then you go down memory lane ... You go down the road to when you first knew your friend and the incredible voyage which leads to an Academy Award Nomination.

I met my gal pal Oscarina, (how can you tell I make up all my friends names to protect them) through my husband. She worked with him and while WonderBoy and I were dating, we all hung out together. We went to films, we shot pool, we ate at 3am, we worked across the hall from each other so when the deadlines were long we would quickly share take-out in our perspective boardrooms and work to the wee hours of the morning often sharing cabs.

Oscarina was married. And she was putting her husband Chris through Chiropractic college. He 'studied' hard and was never home. He was always working on that degree. That is until Oscarina went looking for her extra wool socks one particularly cold day and found a whole pile of explicit, spine tingling letters to Chris from one of his classmates. As luck would have it Oscarina found these letters two days before Chris' graduation from Chiropractic college. His gift to her was the knowledge that he did not love her anymore and was going to his graduation with the author of the letters she had found.

Now Oscarina is a very noble woman. She is not prone to sentimental claptrap. She is more of the 'jaded European type'. A Garbo in our midst not wearing emotions on her sleeve, not standing on a soapbox announcing how her man did her wrong... Not talking about 'how could this happen?' Would she have changed herself? Could she have changed the course? Would she have changed her faith in herself because of someone elses' deceit? Her head held high she moved on, as what else was there to do?

About a year later, Oscarina developed a love interest with an old friend of hers. They quickly developed into a long distance love affair. But Oscarina was not happy. Oscarina's new love interest, Fred suggested that maybe they should take there relationship to a new level by her moving to his city and starting anew. She agreed and so our young heroine took her architectural degree to another city in hopes of happiness with her new love.

Oscarina was happy in her new city, happy with her new love. But terribly unhappy in her chosen career. She had a degree and felt chained to it. She did not like the work and was terribly, unhappy.

Fred, being a smart man, a learned man, suggested maybe another path. A Path not taken. He suggested that she should think about what would truly make her happy and go for it. She was smart, she was keen and she had not financial restraints. He had a good paying job and could support her. Take her time and find her true path.

And with that, Oscarina dared to put her head out into the skies and dared to dream of what she really wanted to be but was too fearful that it would be ridiculed. But she knew she could not live with regret. So, she dared. She dared to take on something new. To take a chance and not be bound by a past but to see a true future for herself.

Oscarina had a vision, she knew what she wanted to be when she grewup. And with the persistance and willingness to learn she worked towards her new goal. A goal that would sustain her into the future. She went back to school. She went back at an older age. She went back in her late thirties. She went back to start a new career of her choice.

And I could fill in the middle with all the challenges that faced our heroine. And there were many. But none that were not met with a a degree of discouragement as she truly could see her path. The blocks we just obstacles which took her on many various tours to her fate. Her true calling.

And I will not tell you what she is nominated for, as she can be emblematic for all those faceless beings in the theatre. The ones who have made the journey, the voyage of a dream. Where no camera will focus on her arrival, none will be focussed on her expectant face in the theatre but a heart will be pounding just the same. Just as my faceless being will be rivetted to my television set, just to hear my friend's name and I can scream 'YES, for she is happy whether she takes home Oscar or not, as she is still on a journey, a voyage and I am so glad that I have been taken along for a true Oscar ride. The path does not stop there.It continues as does life. But for a moment, a brief moment, we stop and hear our hearts pounding in anticipation for a name being called out in a theatre and celebrate the voyage to getting there.

2007-01-23T13:43:00.000-05:00

Santa is Alive and Well and Lives In California?

I am going to share with you my Dearbloggerfriend my great life reaffirming holiday story.

My daughter has become a great Beatles fan. She absolutely loves them. It started innocently enough when she was about three years of age when she first saw The Yellow Submarine. She loved it. And through her nine years on this earth, she has been continually inundated with music from the Beatles.

And last year something really hit a chord with my dear Scooter as she sat and watched A Hard Days Night. She sat mesmerized by these young boys from Liverpool, with their charming smiles, cute hairdos and close fraternity of the band that the film displayed. She loved the humour and the quirkiness of each band member. We have since followed it up with Help! and my daughter's love of Mr. Ringo Starr has been sealed. Sealed so solidly that I have been told that her first born son will be named Richard Starkey. I had always wondered what my first born grandson would be named and now I know.

She has also declared that she knows that someday she will meet Mr. Starr. She just knows she will. All of her friends are given wee antidotes about the Beatles and know how great of a drummer Ringo was. She knows of all the folklore and can pinpoint who is singing what. She can tell you all of the Beatle wives as well. All of her stuffed animals are given names of the Beatles and their crew.

So, for Christmas, when I saw on Ebay the Ringo Starr 'classic', Caveman, I knew I had a perfect stocking stuffer for my wee lass. I placed my bid and awaited the news of my winning the product.

And lo and behold I won!

I do not know if any of you have ever made a purchase through e-bay. It is pretty straight forward, you place your bid, you win or you lose and then you arrange for shipment costs and normally you pay for all through Paypal... Absolutely brilliant! No fuss, no muss and you did not have to leave your home for your purchase, it comes home to you.

Well, my dear seller, does not want his payment through the easy 'no fuss no muss' method of Paypal. He wants his payment through money order. It may seem simple enough for some, but in my neighbourhood, at Christmastime, proves to be a big hassle. A big hassle as people in my neighbourhood are from the olde country. People from my neighbourhood, live, live, for line-ups as it brings them back to the ways of the olde country. It brings them back to their beloved Poland. They are true vetrans of the waiting in line-ups. They bring sustenance.They have thermos' filled with tea and they have sausages. They know of a full day commitment when it comes to government and they expect it. They do not come to the post office for a small piddly package. They come to the post office with bundle buggies full of packages. And they pay for all these packages with bags of coins. Not rolled, as what are they paying the goverment for?

And of course, the post office employee takes all of this in good stride. She is a government employee. She will not be intimidated by huffy people in line. In fact, if there seems to be any rebellion in the ranks, it causes her to work at an even slower pace, seeming to crawl along in her tasks of the day. And all the while she speaks in Polish and moves in such a way, that her breathing causes irritation to a woman, who has to pick up her kid from school in two hours and a half and fears that she has not allowed enough time for this adventure.

Now, I am a perfectly reasonable person. I am a person who is patient and kind. But my neighbourhood post office truly sends me over the deep end. And the fact that I am there five weeks before Christmas and dealing with the crowds displays a love that is indeed great for my daughter. And to be told when I get to the front of the line that they do not take interact, to be told after waiting a lifetime, watching endless pennies being counted at the counter, to hearing all the gossip of various rhumnetoid remedies, to be told when I get to the front of the line that they do not take interact, can cause a perfectly reasonable person to go insane. Or dare I use the phrase 'POSTAL??"

But why do you not take interact? You took it two weeks ago?

Nih,

What do you mean Nih? You did!

Nih Panyha. Zat was den, dis is now. Too buzy for dis interaaaact?

But you are not too busy to count out pennies? I am such a novice when it comes to line ups, such an upstart, such a whippersnapper.And with her 'Nih, and Nexxct!!!!" supended in the air she dismisses me and looks to the next prepared customer, Miss Fussy Pants, or Miss Pissy Pants aka me, turns and leaves, grumbling my displeasure for all the rest of my 'line up buddies' proletariat amusement.

I am so discouraged, well, that truly is not the word, I am so angry , yes, angry, furious even, that to go to my bank, and then go back to the post office takes more energy than I can expend. And since my gasket in brimming to explosion I decide to avoid my rage and storm home sputting and spewing about the injustice of it all.

A week passes and my mind has been preoccupied with all the other holiday festivities that have taken up my mind and brain limited activity. So much so, that I had utterly and completely forgotten about my purchase, my lack of payment or and the postal payment. That is until I get the phone call from my Ebay Buddy.

Ohhh my Gawd.i am so sorry... And I explain my mental obstacle problem with the post. And that I am truly embaressed for my tardiness/forgetfulness. I tell him all about my post office experience, and promise to battle it head on the following day.

I then tell him about my daughter and how much this is going to make her Christmas. I then go into the history of my daughter's love. How often does a kid sit through the entire Beatles Anthology. My daughter can imitate the way George versus John hold their perspective guitars, this poor man was given the whole 'Why Scooter loves the Beatles Speech' and all he was calling for was payment.

I get to the post office, I make my payment, I request Prioity Post and e-mail my E-Bay buddy the particulars. A week and a half later my payment arrives.Nothing like Priority Post! And with that he informs me that the package has been sent.

I write him a thank you note and another sincere apology for my tardiness. And to my surprise he writes me back.
He writes me back with a great story. He, too, loves the Beatles. He, too, can not get enough of them. He understands my family's love of the Beatles. He goes on in his story to tell me about a good friend of his and how she was given the opportunity to play on Sir Paul's latest album. He tells a story of how his good friend was read the riot act through the record label and told that she may not address SirPaul, may not talk about the Beatles or anything for that matter. He tells me how he made his dear friend feels rotten. As he tried guilting her into allowing him to at least drive her to the recording studio for this may be his only opportunity to get a glimpse of one of the fab four.She tells him no, but it huants her. It haunts her all the way through the drive to the studio and up to the kitchen where all the other musicians are making their tea. She then tells all the musician how over wrought with guilt she it and that her friend is such a huge fan and she let him down.
She then decides to prove her point by calling his answering machine and making the various musicians listen to his out going message which is The Beatles and Paul's voice screaming ONE TWO THREE FOOAAHHH!!!

And with that Sir Paul enters the room.The musicians point beyond this young woman's shoulders and she turns... And there she is with Sir Paul. There she is with the man she is supposed to not address, not allowed to talk to, and definitely not allowed to mention The Beatles with.

And it is more than she can bare, she screams' Sir Paul, Sir Paul, I know we are not allowed to talk about The Beatles, I know we are not allowed to talk to you, But Sir Paul, Sir Paul, I would be a horrible, horrible, friend if I did not ask you to listen to my friend's answering machine message!!!Please!!!'

And with that he took the phone from the young woman and pressed redial. He listened to my EBay buddy's outgoing message and left one of his very own Sir Paul greeting on my Ebay Buddy's machine.

Now, this story certainly warmed my heart at Christmas.It was such a sweet story. A story of friendship and it really did make me feel all warm and cozy inside. So, I wrote my e-bay buddy to tell him just that...I also let him know that the Caveman movie arrived and it was perfect.(In truth I forgot how truly bad it was but we fast forwarded the questionable parts.)

Well, My Ebay Buddy then emails me back saying that he has something special for my family. And with that he sent the message from SirPaul as well as bloopers of Beatles recording sessions from around the world. It should receive arrive for Christmas. And Merry Christmas to you and yours.

The CD arrived and I placed it in my husband's stocking along with the new CD called LOVE... But the CD of the Bloopers is what was the coveted gift over the holidays. It was played non stop. John trying to get Paul to laugh, Paul screaming 'Bloody Hell,' and George making up words to a song... Endless moments for the fans in my home.

I wrote my dear Ebay Buddy another thank you note to let him know how truly appreciated his gift was.... How utterly selfless and I will remember him always for it. As through a simple ebay purchase I got a bit of Christmas back. For Santa is alive and well and lives in California.

And you know....
When he opened my e-mail. He felt so very special. He did feel like Santa Claus. But he also added that he felt very surreal for as he opened his blackberry to my e-mail he was in Ringo Starr's home. He was asked to help his friend with a contract of decorating his home. He was in Ringo's house...

And Mr. Starr was on the phone in front of him and on the coffee table there was a Variety Book with Icons of the 21st century with the Beatles on the cover. And through his email he gave me wee tastes of what the home looked like for me to tell my daughter so that she may relive his moment.

He wrote me a wonderful note back saying that he would find a way to get a fan letter from my Scooter to Mr. Starr.

Now, Dear-BloggerFriend , it does not end there, as I have told this story of goodwill to all who were willing to listen. And I told this story to my friends at a big party I had over the holidays...

And one of the dad's at my party, gives me this mischievious smile and says that 'we are all elves.... And not only does Santa live in California but he can live in Canada too... 'And with that he has my attention...

His sister's best friend is married to Zachary Starkey. Ringo's son.

And so the beat goes on... Now, if only I could get my daughter into Thom Yorke!

2007-01-13T17:53:00.000-05:00

Elvis Presley - Baby What You Want Me To Do ('68 Comeback)

They the powers that be at You Tube took off 'One Night' from their line up...and you really need the true Elvis Visual for the post... As I do not want you to thinkof anything other than the man clad in leather, jammin'!
So It may not be' One Night' But it is at least a pretty distant second but I gotta do what I gotta do!
So please read the next post...as this is just a quick wee eye candy visual and/or the music as a backdrop to the following post... My husband loves me me very much....

2007-01-11T17:32:00.000-05:00

One Night

My husband loves me very much. My husband adores me. He would go to the sun and moon and back again for me... or at least he would take me to Graceland.

He loves me so much that he knew what I felt for Elvis since I was a young girl. He knew I experienced the King's magic in the 68 Comeback special. He knew what an out of body experience it was like for me. He knew the King could make me swoon. And my Beloved was okay with it.

So when we were courting he knew that he 'had' me when he suggested that we go on a road trip. He knew that I was in love. For who else could or would, want to share the true Elvis Experience with me?

We went to Graceland,Memphis, Tennessee. The home of the King. We went singing a Blue Christmas and Heartbreak Hotel at the top of our lungs while eating peanut butter sandwiches. We went to Graceland saying'Tank ya, Tank ya very muuuuch'

I loved the camp of Elvis. And as fate would have it we descended upon Graceland on Elvis' Birthday, January 8th, in 1991. There were Elvis impersonators everywhere. There were young Elvis' old Elvis', there were Chinese Elvis' there were Rasta Elvis'. There were women with their best Pricilla bee hive hairdo's , there were old and young alike. They were coming to pay their respects to the King. And me not even knowing it was the King's Birthday...

We stayed across the street from the home of Elvis in the Memory Lane Inn and our room came equipped with the twenty four hour Elvis channel. The swimming pool was in the shape of a guitar and the 'art' on the walls were old album covers that were nailed into the veneer. Our 'consierge' at the front desk looked as though he were Elvis had he lived to age 65 with jet black hair still greased back, weighing a modest three hundred pounds, with gold rings on each finger and a sneer that followed. He walked with his head held on a slant, wearing black high heeled boots coupled with black polyester pants, a ELVIS belt buckle and a shirt unbuttoned to show off his lightening bolt TCB gold necklace. I was living the moment.

'Will you be staying for the continental breakfast?' he asks in the great Tennesee drawl looking at me through his eyebrows.
What is in the continental breakfast? I ask politely.
'Ahhh, doughnuts popcorn, coke and a coffee...'
'Sounds like a breakfast fit for a king! Count us in!'

And with that we checked in and hankered down to watch the Elvis station, where we learned from Elvis' cousin twice removed that Elvis was/is not dead, He informed us at 1 am that "He knows Elvis and that was not Elvis in the coffin that he saw.' We watched bad films, other relatives with various speculations on where Elvis may be living but there was no 68 Comeback Special to be had.

I do not know what I had expected about Elvis' home, collection of Cadillacs, airplane or bus. I do not know if I wanted some sense of connection to this man who reached me over the televison and through records. I do not know if I thought if I perused his home I may have that tingly sensation of his presence.

But Graceland does not give you this. It is just a home, a suburban home that has tour guides who give out scripted antitdotes about Elvis, through an ex-wife's voice. The furniture has all been covered in plastic just as his afterlife seemed to be. The feeling of Elvis had indeed left this building. There was no sense of Elvis ever being in da' building. But I suppose his house does not really have a soul or for that matter his sweat. The sweat has already been tweeked out of all his clothing and has been sold in the officially sanctioned Elvis store across the way.

That is until we walked downstairs into his costume area. And there were all his famous outfits. There it was the leather suit. There is was, and I felt 'tingly'. It brought me right back to being a girl and watching his Comeback Special as a rerun. It brought me back to my parents wreckroom,me lying on the floor,for I certainly could not get up. With the song 'One Night' I thought, this is the man, this man with that voice, the man with the sneer that belts his guitar on his chest, this man in clad in leather,this IS the man I am going to marry. And as I stared gleaming I just kept hearing 'One Night' in my head...

And when we came to his wedding tuxedo. Ohhhh how I just stared.
I remember turning to the Man Who Brought me to Graceland and saying' A brown paisley tux... How utterly cool is that??? Brown Paisley!!! And he just nodded in agreement.
'Did I ever tell you, I thought I was going to marry Elvis?' I inquire, not really to him, but more to the manequin that sported the brown paisley tuxedo behind the bullet proof sheilding.

I should have stayed in that section and not meandered over to the Las Vegas suits but that was also part of his being. And part of his style. And if anything, Elvis had his own type of style. I preferred to remember him always in the 68 Special but acknowledge that the movies and the Vegas years did happen.

But the tour did not seem right, even with all the camp all around us.

I had a good laugh at the King size bed in the Lisa Marie Airplane with the seat belt across the middle for when Elvis had long flights. Sure I had a giggle seeing the eternal flame right beside the swimming pool. And I had a good laugh knowing that Elvis' great Aunt was still living upstairs while we toured her nephew's home. But it left me feeling pretty void. How everyone was cashing in on Elvis. How they were cashing in on his being instead of his music. In Graceland there is no music to be had.

But we decided to get off the tour and explore Memphis ourselves. And in the rain we came upon Sun Studios.
We found Elvis and he was in the building. It was just a small recording studio where Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins and Elvis first got their start.

The recording engineers who purchased the studio had a real love of music, a real love for the sound that came out of Memphis. They saved the studio as it had been made into a autobody repair shop. They painstakenly brought back the tiles and refurbished the studio back to its grandeur of when Sam Phillips had a vision. These sound engineers brought the Elvis and the other hometown boys home for the tourists and they knew we were all looking for them.

We were given an audio tour. We stood transfixed in the centre of the studio as they played the tapes they had recovered. We heard all of the good takes and the bad. We heard the banter, and we heard them jam with each other. We heard them. We heard them while they were still struggling, or in some cases rising up. There was laughter and artistry in those walls. We heard Elvis come in and interrupt Carl Perkins recording to show off his new Cadillac, we also hear him leave as he curses the kids who were playing on the hood of his new car. We heard Johnny Cash enter from Christmas shopping and wanted to wish Elvis a Merry Christmas as he just saw the Cadillac parked out front.We heard Jerry Lee, enter to find out where his song was on the charts and was startled to meet Mr. Presley. It would known later as the Million Dollar recording session. And we get to hear how these men heard music in the Delta and re-interpretate it for the masses. We heard them jam. And we heard an interpretation of rock and roll history and the sounds of some of the bars in the South. We heard a part of America.

And at the end of the audio there was a sense of satisfaction with all in the room. We took in all that the walls had witnessed and produced with the Memphis rains pouring in the back ground.

And as we stood in the centre of the room, the engineers pointed as an afterthought to the various instruments and props around the studio ' Dat dere is de piano dat Jerry Lee Lewis recorded Great Balls of Fire, and dat dere is the guitar of Mr. Johnny Cash And over dere, dat dere is the microphone dat Elvis is holding in dat dere photograph.'

And to my utter amazement as the sound engineers let us have our moment, a group of elderly women who were with us on the audio tour, the ones with their white hair held high in their bee hive lids, these respectable grannies, these women, these women, looked around to make certain that no one was looking and then they grabbed the microphone and licked it.... I could not believe my eyes... But indeed Elvis was in the building and maybe they could just taste a bit of his saliva.

My Graceland companion gasped and I howled.

And through the years I have met various people who knew Elvis.I have met people that have jammed with Elvis and were given the Elvis trademark TCB lightning bolt necklace instead of the Cadillac. And they could bring Elvis into the building with their stories and their songs.

And in 1994 when I wore a giant merrangue dress, with a veil. for the man I truly love, I found that he, my soul mate, my road companion for life, had worn a brown paisley suit.

And all I could do as I swooned at the alter was to say "Oh baby, for me?'

And I know I am a bit late... with all due respect, Baby,may I call you Baby? Mr. Elvis Aaron Presley... Thank ya Thank ya very much...And Happy Birthday... From your adoring fan # 15,675,393.

2006-12-29T21:23:00.000-05:00

Donny Osmond- Puppy Love

A Gift That Keeps On Giving

When Jill called twelve years ago and asked me to go and see an Andrew Lloyd Webber Musical I was taken aback.

I have known Jill for years and she is one, tough cookie. She has worked in construction for the past ten years and prior to that she was a bar maid at a very popular tough, blues bar. Famous blues artists knew her by name, greats like Buddy Guy, Mac Guitar Murphy or Stevie Ray Vaughn would dedicate songs in their set to Jill. She could balance a tray of beers, handle change, take a bow all in good grace with a cigarette dangling from her lips.

She was a no nonsense type of woman that was used to smokey caverns and to be asked to go to a musical with her was if anything out from the character I thought I knew.

'Ahh, come on Pendullum! You love musicals! It will be fun!' she begged....

'But, its Andrew Lloyd Webber and I am not a big fan,' and huffily add 'He still has a alot answer for with that 'musical' Cats!'

Ohhh,Come on Pend...Donny Osmond is in it!!

Donny Osmond? Are you kidding? No! No, I mean, even MORE of a reason NOT to go...

Come on, it will be great...she implored.

'I would not put Donny and Andrew Lloyd Weber together and come up with 'Great' Jill...Really!'

'Oh,Pend,My friend Ginger is part of the chorus and really wants to me to go... Please?'

'Oh, Jill...All right, but this is for your friend...'

So my dear, rocking, 'gal pal' drove into the mean city so that we could have lunch get caught up. I did not really see her excitement in the moment. I just though she was excited to see me as it had been a while. I thought the speed in which she talked was due to getting all the information out before we had to sit in the darkened theatre. I thought that when she paid our bill while I was using the loo was just her being generous and thanking me for going to the musical. I did not register the urgency or that she was rushing me out of the restaurant.

How little did I know.

We entered the theatre and were surprised as we were fourth row centre. I was not too taken up with our seats, as I was of the fully grown Donny Osmond fans behind us. These two women were decked out in their purple socks and old Donny Osmond hats and they brought their ten year old daughters to educate them on how great Donny was/is. They were living for this Donny moment all of their lives.

I barely had time to register all of what was around me when the orchestra started to play and the curtain opened and Donny made his appearance. The women behind me went crazy. They screamed as Donny floated above us.

'Fall on me!!!!! Donny!!!!! Fall on me, Do what you want with ME!!!! Donny!!!' they belted in hysteria.

I just simply could not believe this 'Donny experience'. I was in awe that such adoration. Apparently if you love Donny it could last what appears to be a lifetime of unrequitted puppy love.
As the women screamed 'He is the gift that just keeps on giving!!!' I had to smirk.

The fans realized that their screams of want and desire, were being muted by the orchestra and the entire cast belting out the showtunes.They decided to save their voices for the end of the show when Donny would come out for his bow and then their voices would maybe carry to their hearthrob for the last twenty years.

For all my skeptism I was impressed with the show. I dare say it was good. I was entertained and enjoyed the ride of the musical.

And at the end of the show my girlfriend Jill was gloating that I did enjoy the musical. It went unnoticed on my radar when she requested, with the demonic smile, that we go back stage to congratulate Ginger on the show's success. I did not notice that she grabbed me and tugged me along leaving no room for escape.

We had to exit the theatre and go in through the back stage doors. And to my surprise there were our neighbouring seatmates, the mothers from hell in their purple socks with their Donny Osmond records and their embarassed,daughters who had not felt the wonder on Donny. There were waiting at the stage door in hopes of having another Donny moment. I looked at them and looked at my girlfriend. I did not recognize/ register that they were wearing the same crazed expression. As Jill just kept on talking about the show and aparently did not notice these wacky fans. I wish I looked into Jill's eyes at that time. But hindsight is twenty twenty.

My girlfriend gave our name and we were lead into the inner corridors of the theatre. We were told to wait in the green room for Ginger. And while we waited I looked at the portraits on the wall and kept myself amused. I talked about the various publicity shots and my girlfriend responded to each of these comments cohearantly with the odd 'aha'.

When Ginger walked in I gushed and 'oo'ed over her performance. She was pretty happy we came and marvelled at how well received the show was. She then said that she really wanted us to meet Donny. She said that he was a pure joy to work with. He was wholesome and kind. He was considerate to all in the cast and there really was not a bad word you could say about him. In fact, he was going to drop in before he head home.

And almost on cue, Donny entered stage left. He had showered and was wearing grey dress pants and a black shirt as he was due to go to church. He looked good. He still had that boyish, country, wholesome, smile with those great Osmond teeth. He came into the room congratulated Ginger by name, on an excellent performance and then turned his attention to us. Ginger introduced me first.

Hi, Don Osmond.

Hi, I am Pendullum. Boy, that was a really great performance you guys gave. I really liked it a lot. REALLY.Surprised as I did not think I would.

Geez thanks. No,I really do have a great cast. It has been a lot of fun. I really like it here.

And we talked as if we were at a cocktail party. And then Ginger introduced Jill.She was beaming from ear to ear and then I recognized the expression. I recognized the expression as it was the same as the derranged mothers.I was not with my friend Jill. I was with a crazed Donny Osmond fan.

She stood up to greet Donny. She reached out with both her hands and grabbed Donny's hand. She grabbed him with both hands and just stared. A vacant stare with this smile that encompassed her entire face.

Her eyes were fixated on Donny's and she was not blinking.

She opened her mouth to speak.

She was trying to say something.

"annanmmana' came out of her lips.

I looked over at my friend. She was shaking Don's hand with such urgency that Donny's body looked as though it were vibrating.

'Amamannnabanna, ahhhhh, ohhhhh, anananman Jill, amanana loooooooove, amaman Jill, loooooove, ahhh,yyyyyyoouuuu, ahhhhh DDDDDDonny' came out of my drooling friend's mouth.

Donny is looking to me for help as Ginger is thinking this is indeed an out of body experience.

I reach over and try to pry Jill's hands off Mr. Osmond while she still spoke in the forked tongue of love.

I tried as best I could to translate for my friend.

'Ahh, what she is meaning to say Donny, I mean Don, is that her name is Jill and she is a big fan. Is this right Jill?'

'AAAHkkkk ahhkkkke yyyyeaahhh'

And as I pried her hands off of him and he being the pro, with these 'types' of Donny moments kept eye contact with her and nodded and thanked her.

'And I think she is also trying to say that she liked the show? Am I right here, Jill?'

'Ahhhhhhaaaa. wwwove aiiit wwwove Iiiiii wwwwoooovee'

'Well thanks again...' Don says with humble pride.

And when I finally pry his hand free he thanks her for coming and backs out of the green room nice and slow.

And with the essence o Donny still in the room, my girlfriend returns to the land of the living as quickly as she exited.

I look at her in disbelief.

Pendullum, Pendullum! I just shook hands with DONNY OSMOND! DONNY OSMOND!!!!
Ohhh, My Gawd, he is beautiful.I handled that okay. Don't you think? I mean I didn't try and kiss him or anything...

Yeah, you're right! You did not exactly speak English!You kinda spoke Donny Osmondese...

'Ohh, Pendullum,' she sobbed, 'He is just a gift that keeps giving!'

And twelve years later, Jill is so right. Whenever we chat or reminice, we speak 'Donny Osmondese' and laugh and laugh at a 'moment' that just keeps on giving!

And from the bottom of my blogger heart, I wish all of you endless 'Donny Osmondese' moments... as it truly is the gift that keeps on giving!

Love to all of you in 2007!

Much Love,
Pendullum!

2006-12-20T08:12:00.000-05:00

Seasons of Love - Rent (Music Video)

Today is the Anniversary of My Best Friend's Passing

My Best Friend died this day 2001 at 4:45pm.

My Best Friend Died Alone in a hospital bed while I frantically tried to figure out how to get back to New York to climb into his hospital bed and whisper from the inner depths of my heart and soul that 'I love you madly!!! 'I truly Love you!!!'

And while my husband said it was so fitting that he died before the darkest day of the year so that I may mourn him...It gave me no solace...

But years later, I still mourn him on this day... For what I lost. For what the world lost.

But most importantly I celebrate him.

I celebrate the friendship.

I celebrate the moments he gave me...and they will be cherished my entire life.

He gave me wonders...

And he wished wonders for me and my family...

And to all of you from the bottom of my heart...

I wish you all wonders on this holiday season...

Lift up your hearts, behold the lights, embrace the stars and give lots of love, for in the end, isn't that how the season and life should be measured?

2006-12-08T10:35:00.000-05:00

Art is in the Eye of the Beholder

Loralei is a wonderful human being.

Her parents named her well. She fits the name perfectly. Or did she grow into it?
Loralei is a slight woman, she has twinkly eyes that envelop you in love and humour. She always looks like she is up to mischief or is at the gate to give a melodious laugh to accentuate the end of your witty story. She has a good nature. She is always doing good for the less fortunate and never talks about it. She would never think to boost her self importance up when she helped someone who was down. She really is the Florence Nightingale of our time. She has wiped many a brow, she has brought forth so much to our world that I am blessed to call her my friend.

So, when Loralei's husband called to say he wanted to throw a party to mark her 50 years on earth, there was an overwelming response as a hundred and fifty people drove from far and wide to celebrate her marvellous life with youthful abandon. People came from as far as Dubai, people came from her hometown and we rented a car, and travelled four hours by car as we could not miss such an opportunity to celebrate Loralei's life.

It was a grand fabulous party .There was a band in her dining room that was playing some great old tunes that Loralei loved. There was dancing, there was laughter, there was endless food and long, lost, friends gathered together. We all had a few more laugh lines and a few tear stains for those who were not with us but it truly felt like an intimate family function with 150 of your most closest of friends .

Our Pied Piper was Laralei and the lilt of her laughter have us all transfixed and unified in our love of her.

With the party winding down, Loralei looked at me and said that she was so genuinely, glad that I came to her party as she had something for me.

This is so typical of Loralei, her birthday and yet she has something for me.

She took my hand and brought me into the dining room where the band had just cleared up their geer, people were still milling about and I could not figure out what she had for me. Then she pointed to a picture on the wall. It was a 40 by 46 painting.

Now, please bare with me, as I have not told you dear reader about Loralei's 'hobby'.
I LOVE Loralei, I adore Loralei, she is one of the finest people I know on this earth, I would never want to hurt Loralei, but I have a deep, dark, secret, dear reader...

A secret about Loralei.

Loralei paints pictures.

Her technique is amazing. She has the strokes right down patt.She has mastered shadows, mastered colour, she is a fine technical painter. She paints so close to the object,in such fine strokes you can not see the beginning or end of her brush.

All that being said, she never stands back to look at what she has painted.

So, all her paintings of humans are ... off... there is something not right, the faces tend to be slightly escue, the eyes off balance or ever so slightly cross eyed, or maybe the lips do not line up with the nose, or it may be something that you can not put your finger on what is wrong with the painting per say...Some how most of her subjects look a bit? A bit? Derranged.

So,when she lead me to this 40 by 46 painting. I was in shock.

'This is for you... 'she says.

I was flabbergasted... I could not tear my eyes away from it. What is it???

'Why Loralei that is just too nice, Thank you... It's it's beautiful...'

'Pendullum, I've worked on this for years, It's Scooter when she was a baby. Remember that picture you took? and I told you how much I loved it..and then you gave me a copy... Remember???' she says as she alooks at me, she has those beautiful sparkly eyes imploring me to take another look at the painting further.

It was hard to focus on the magnitude of this painting.

This portrait of a sleeping alien, with the huge bublous head and the long eyebrow was supposed to be my baby?

This 40 by 46 picture is, Scooter???

Quick Pendullum, recover, recover!!!! Loralei is still looking at me and not the painting. Waiting for me to recognize my off spring in her work.

My mind is quickly scanning through every photograph I have ever taken of my daughter trying to find something familiar something to bring me to the recognition of my daughter being the sleeping alien in front of me... And then I remember... Thank goodness! I remember!

'Ohhh, now I rememberrrrr..... New York???? Scooter was a year,,, yes! yes! Loralei that was so long ago. She is nine now. You have floored me. Brought me back!!! Yes, I am sooooo not used to thinking of her as a baby anymore.'I can now announce with confidence.

I then add,'Oh Loralei is it is far too generous. Ohhh, my gawd, it was so long ago when she was that size... I 'm overwelmed. It is so beautiful. Thank you...'

BoyWonder happens to be walking by, on his way to the kitchen to replenish his beer supply and joins us. I can not give him the low down. I do not have the chance prepare him for this. I have no time to monitor what will come out of his tadd tipsy lips....

'BoyWonder, ahhh look!!!' As I point to the alien painting. 'Loralei has giving us this beautiful painting...' I say with a manic, ,high pitched shrill of a voice so that he knows this is no joke.

Ohhhh??? And then he follows me finger pointing to the larger than life painting. He looked as though he just came upon a train wreck... A horror in the eyes, a mouth slightly agape, he could not pull your eyes away from the painting.

'Why Loalei. it is beautiful but we can not take this' he flatly states.

But you must... I insist...It is my absolute favourite picture of a baby sleeping...' exclaims Loralei.

'Well, then you must keep it!' he eagerly retorts.'We can not take something that is so generous!'

'But, ' protests Loralei, 'It's Scooter, I painted it for you guys... It's the blue matt isn't it? Too much? I knew that blue matt seemed too extreme.'

'SCOOTER?' BoyWonder says a bit louder than needed and now he turns from the portrait and is looking at me for guidance.'No Loralei, the blue matt is great! Scooter?'

'Yes, Honey, It's Scooter... It was so long ago, she's nine now but think back...' I say manically nodding at him.
"Are you sure? Are you sure it's, Scooter?' he inquires.

'Honey, it is.' I say louder than normal with a great deal of frantic enthusiasm on my face. ' Loralei painted it from a picture I took years ago... Look at the hands, Scooter still holds her hands that way when she sleeps...'

BoyWonder looks at me again like I am crazy and realizes that he better save grace. He now begins to search the painting for some semblence of our daughter. 'Ohhhh yes,' he says while nodding 'It is Scooter?'

And then Loralei's husband walks in with his martini... He, too has been a bit overserved. He walks over to us and follows our horrified stares to the painting.
He looks at the painting and states 'Isn't that the UGLIEST baby you have ever laid your eyes on?'
Loralei just looks at him
'I mean, the parents of this alien may have taken to eating thier young. Geez, that is one UUUUUUHHHHGLLLLY kid!'
'Bill?'
'Yes Loralei.'
'That's Scooter?'
'Who?'
'Scooooooter?' as she nods our way.
'Who the hell, is Scooter??? Besides the UUUGGGGLLLLIIIEST baby alive... Talking about SPAWN! Loralei WHAT?'
'Scooter is Pendullum and BoyWonder's baby.' Loralei now adopting the manic high pitched shrill of me.
'Whaaat???'
He looks at me, he looks at BoyWonder, looks at the painting...

We, BoyWonder and I, have not been able to take our eyes off the painting.

'You guys, you guys, know I was joking, Right? I mean she doesn't look like this now... I mean she is a cute kid... Right? Or does she still look like Zoltar? I mean not that this painting looks like Zoltar or anything like that.'

And for the rest of the night Bill followed us around letting us know that he was tipsy and that upon looking closer to the picture she really was a cute baby.

We were saddened the following day when we returned to the home of Lorali and Bill to find no one had yet risen and we can not pick up the painting.

We know the picture will come back to our house, as we know that we will see Loralei over the holidays and there will definitely be the great unveiling of the portrait. Probably with a great deal of pomp and circumstance from Bill.

And the alien will reside in our home in a place of honour. How oftencan one feel so much love with a gift? And when I look at it, I know that I will think of that night of friendship. And when I look at the painting, I guarantee I will see my husband's look of horror and I will see Bill with a Martini in hand,and I will see Loralei's bright, shining face above all else.I will be sent on a journey. And sometimes with art, it can take you to different places with just one image. Sometimes art just does that. It all depends on how you look at it.

2006-11-21T16:13:00.000-05:00

Dinner and a Show

I have these neighbours. The type of neighbours that never say hello unless you say hello first. They do not appear to know your name, that is until they find themselves stuck in a snowbank and need a push to get out of the tight spot and then your name flows like honey off of their lips. They religously attend church every Sunday. She teaches Sunday school classes. Her hair is always coifed. She is always dressed up, never in jeans and always has gum in her glum mouth which she chews as a viseral display accompanied with a scowl on her imposing face. He, has a loud booming voice that likes to use when dealing with his children. He swaggers when he walks and always has his keys in his left hand. His arms are placed a foot from his body when he walks, thereby taking up the entire sidewalk space with his being and his importance of being the master of his clan. He is on the board of directors of the church and for a first glance he is appears to be the pillar of our community.

This couple also come with replicas. They have three children who have never smiled since my husband and I moved into our home thirteen years ago. They sneer as they walk single file behind their parents. They do not walk side by side but prefer to disassociate themselves from their siblings, and parents by walking single file as they slumpinto their home. There is no outward happiness in this family. No happiness, no light.

Their house is prestine. They rake their leaves in the fall.They shovel their snow to the property line in the winter never helping out either neighbours on either side by shovelling a tad more. They mow their lawn and trim their bushes. They covet their parking spot which is directly in front of they house even though they have a garage in the back and a laneway to the side. They drive everywhere, even though we are steps from all modern conveniences.

Whenever they talk to each other,it is with loud, abrasive voices,that screech through the air and draw attention to their plight of existence. There is an annoyance in each sentence lurking in the air, when they talk with each other.There is always a loud shrill from the mother to 'Shut up!' and the Father always blusters that he 'Needs Peace!' and then he always adds his childrens' names to enlighten his congregation of five who can bring him this inner enlightenment...DAAAAAVVVIIIID!!!!!!MAAAAATTTTHHHHEHWWWW, LINNNNNNDDDDSSSAAAYYYYYY!!!!... He vociferates their names like a mantra daily.
And the kids always retort with a curse for each other with the various swear words of the day, and the obligatory rolling of their eyes as the scowl, in retort to their parents demands...

They are self sufficient.They are self reliant. And they would never help a neighbour as they have no social responsibility to our neighbourhood as they do their duty by going to church. Their pennance to society is done elsewhere.

I have labelled them... The nickname I have given this self-sufficient, self-reliant family is the Belligerent Bunch.

A few years back I had a run in with the Belligerent Bunch. I wrote them off as humans. They now only have a monikker. And are an annoyance to my relatively carefree existance.

My daughter had a sleepover and a few nights ago and Boy Wonder and I had our world as our oyster. We contemplated going out for dinner but settled on a romantic evening with a video and Indian food being delivered in.

We ordered our food and poured the wine in anticipation.

While sitting with glass of wine in hand, talking to each other, we hear a car door slam and with delicious, mouthwatering anticipation we bound to the door with money and wine in hand.

But it is not our tardy delivery boy with our dinner.

Instead it is two drunkards looking for their long lost buddy and have their sights geered toward the Belligerent Bunches' House.

They get out of their taxi and yell to each other.

They have caught our scrupulous attention.

Are you sure this is Marty'ssssssssssss plaaaaaccccccce???? as they look at the prestine house.

'YAaaaahhh, !' and with that the drunkard falls into the driver's side to pay the cabbie.

'Looks different then I remembered it?'

My husband turns off all of our houselights so we can sneekily watch the Belligerent Bunches' show.

The second drunkard becomes disoriented and turns around. He loses his friend who is but a few steps away in the cab. But remembers that he needs to pee, so he walks a few steps, loses his balance, stabilizes himself on the Beligerent Bunches' car on the passenger side. His back it to the cab his let hand is on the car the other hand is fumbling with his trousers. Drunkard Two relieves himself on the passenger side door.(according to my Dad and all his cop friends, this action while it may seem offensive it is not an offence in the eyes of the law, as long as it is on the passenger side....Go Figure!)

Drunkard One is now out of the cab after paying. He can not see Drunkard Two as he is leaning on the car as he urinates. So Drunkard One thinks that his 'buddy' has already gone into the house and is reunited with Marty. He swaggers up the stairs to The Belligerent Bunches' house throwing himself to the top stair and balancing on the doorbell with a mighty push.

Not satisfied with the doorbell, Drunkard now flings open the screen door and uses the prestine, virginal, brass knocker with reckless abandon.
My husband and I snicker in anticipation.
BANG!BANG!BANG!

MARRRRRTTTTTYYYYYY!!!!!!

Belligerent Bunches' Dad turns on the light. He looks through the curtain but does not open the door.
Belligerent Bunches' Dad turns off the light.

Coooooome oooonnnn Jooohhhhhnnnn!oooooppppppennnnnn uuuuuppppppp!

'Dere is no John Here' bellows Mr. Belligerent.

'Yessss, dere isssss!"Coooooooommmmmme onnnn he jussssssst went innnnnn...Drunkard One insists.

'Dere is no John here sir, Leave my porch! You Sir, You Do NOT LIVE HERE!' blares Mr. Belligerent.

Now, our drunkard who is still peeing the rest of the 24 on the car and is looking for his friend. He can not find where the voice is coming from. Talking about Blind Drunk! Drunkard Two since he can not find his friend, and opts to leave. He swaggers down the street using each car and friendsly hedge along the way for support.

But Drunkard Buddy Number One does not see this. He thinks his buddy definitely is pulling a fast one on him and is inside the Belligerent Bunches' House.

'Coooommmme AAAWWWWNNNNN...'

Through his powers of drunken observation, Drunkard One concludes that his friend must have gone into the house the back way. He turns around and looks at the stairs. Swaggers, sways, stumbles, while he thinks of how to get down from the porch . He sums up that he can not negotiate the stairs and opts to throw himself off the front porch and lands in the bushes. He slowly pulls himself up, brushes off the offending shubbery off of his hair and jacket and heads towards the back yard in search for John.
Joaaaahhhhhnnnnn... Joaaaaaaahhhhnnnn!!!!!!!!! Come on buddy! where are yaaaa???? said Drunkard One 'Lemme in...'
And with that Drunkard One starts to sing 'Ode to Nova Scotia' at the top of his lungs and with the pride of a time-tested and true, maritimer.
I guess the Ode to Nova Scotia opens doors in someplaces but not with the Belligerent Bunch that is for certain.

I do not know if it was the song, the peeing on the car, the destruction of the bush or the insistance that' Joaaaaahhhnnnn was in da' house..' But the police arrive.

The police pull up. And one of the cops bounds out of the car and addresses all the darkened houses with eyes peering out of darkened windows. (Glad we are not alone.)The policeman gets out of the car stands in front of his car with the lights still ablaze causing his figure to seem like a vaudville performer. He does a circles and turns to all of the houses while points to his wristwatch for affect. In great thespian style announces to all the darkened houses with eyes peering 'Pretty Good, eh? Six minutes people... Six minutes... Your tax payers dollars... Six minutes'

And with that he goes to get Buddy in the backyard.

Another police car arrives a minute later with the Drunkard Two slumped in the back of the cruiser. A cop who is four foot five tall gets out of this cruiser and is hysterical with rage. His voice is high pitched and shreiking 'I trusted you guys, I put you in a cab and I pick you up again?????'
And then the first drunkard who is being brought to the front by the great thesbian cop says. 'Never trust a drunk man listening to a leprechuan.'

and with that all the other cops laugh.

and then I can see my delivery guy heading up my stairs.

And all the cops stop their conversation of 'what to do with the dynamic duo' and have diverted their attention to my delivery guy walking up to my darkened house. I sheepishly answer the door and pay the guy. And slink back into my house.

I know it was childish. I know that it was such a 'bad form' neighbour moment. But my husband and I howled. We could not stop laughing. Maybe we should get out more???
For days we have gone around saying in a deep, booming,articulated, voice 'You sir, You sir,,,,, you do not live here!'

And I do not think I will ever hear the Ode to Nova Scotia without thinking of that night.

And when I think of the Belligerent Bunch I now think to myself....

Sometimes,misery does deserve company!

2006-11-05T10:08:00.000-05:00

The Dance of Innocence

There are places and times, songs and people that can make you transcend the boundaries of your present and can send you catapulting back, pulling back time, as you fall, it erases all wrinkles and jaded behavior and leaves you just as you were, in the blink of an eye or with the mention of your name, no spa, no drug, no fitness regime could be so powerful to turn back the clock of life.

It was a cold, damp, autumn day, the air permeates through my layers of clothing and causes me to shiver as I prepare to leave the grocery store.The black clouds swirling overhead are beginning to threaten rain which has caused my mood to become more glum than it already is. I am laddened with 50 pounds of groceries distributed through ten plastic bags that are dangling from my wrists. And the wind begins to pick up just as I leave the confines of the store. I feel old. I feel haggard. I feel put out by the evils of northern living. I am not having a good day.

I think, I hear my name being called, but the infuriating sky and my plight with life really has my entire attention.
I ignore the call of my name and adjust my focus to my daughter who is walking about as if it were a balmy summer day. Her head is ahead of the clouds and she is dreaming of unicorns and sunny beaches, when I have to raise my voice to bring her back to the land of cold and miserable.
My dreamer is walking along side me in a t-shirt, with her coat in hand and not a care in the world. And I am a bit envious of her as we plod on.

I have now resigned myself to the fact that I am going to be soaked even if I rush my dreamer along, I continue to curse Caelus of the sky, when I hear my name again.

And this time I look for the person to accompany the voice, for it certainly is not Caelus, as he is mocking my misfortune.

I know the voice and it takes me back in time. I momentarily am not the haggard, baglady with blue hands, with my dreamy side kick daughter. I am instead a fifteen year old school girl. All, in the sound of a voice, that has said my name about a million times...

I turn and there he is. My sweet, dear, friend from high school. There he is, my, dear, sweet, Andy.

I do not remember how I met Andy but I know it was grade ten. He was in grade twelve. I knew him in an age of innocence. And that is how we have remained suspended through the decades.

Andy was one of those types of boys who would have the girls in school giggle a wee bit louder than normal in hopes of capturing his attention. And the boys would hang close in hopes of feeding off his positive energy. To accompany the energy came his boyish, good looks. He was handsome. He had striking blue eyes, that he would insist on talking with, and a smile which could melt most the most hardened.The kind of boy who had a certain dress sense of ripped sweaters layered about with army fatigues that was devastatingly handsome. It was his look. Many had tried in high school to replicate this look but came off just replicas.

He had kind eyes and a voice that kind of squeaked when he talked. There was an uncertainty to the real range of his voice but through his voice there was a charming innocence of life. A soft spoken voice that never changed as we aged and somehow it was always reassuring in its uproarious, delivery.

He was always a person who valued his friends. He would do anything for you. He would always stop, no matter how much in a rush he was in, he would always help with whatever the task, no matter how menial. He was a true friend who put value in moments spent together. I can still shutter and some of the favours he did for me without question through out the years of friendship.

Andy would always walk me home from school if it was getting late. He would always have his bicycle balancing both of our heavy knapsacks on his handle bars as we walked and talked about our day. He would always ask me what I was reading and make a mental note of it for the future. And inevitably he would read whatever I recommended. He and I would race on our bikes to various events. He would cycle with me to parties. And many a time we would lock our bikes together knowing with certainty that we would leave the party together as many a time we preferred our company, to that of a love interest at the time. He would always keep a watchful eye out for me as a big brother would, for that truly was the nature of our friendship. We were very dear friends.We were never attracted to each other and I suppose this is how the innocence of our friendship has been rooted in a time of promise.

And as he called my name again, I went through a magnificent time warp. I let go of my anger for Zeus and his dastardly bunch of weather goons, and as I heard my name again the years vanished and I was fifteen again albeit with my nine year old daughter.

Andy ran across the street to meet me with his bike. The years has been good to him. He threw his left arm around me and balanced his bike on his right side as he was prone and gave me a hug while my arms remained at my sides as I still had my groceries. I could see beyond Andy's shoulder as my daughter stood transfixed by this man who was hugging her mom. A person beyond the grasp of fifteen year old innocence.

He pulled away and looked at Scooter. 'Hi I'm Andy.I met you, a long time ago Scooter but you probably do not remember. I went to school with your momma.'
And with that statement wavering in the air, he put out his hand to shake my daughter's.

And he looked up at the sky and said 'We are in for a big storm.' Discounting the clouds, he systematically took my bags from my hands and placed them on the handle bars of his bike and motioned for us to continue on our path.

He walked alongside my daughter and I. And he talked to my daughter, he showed a vested interest in her thoughts. And he shared our past with her. He talked about the silliness we got into. He talked about me helping him with various tests in high school and university, he talked about how we would row at 5am and how unhappy I would be at that time of the morning. He laughed. He would talk about what I wore to the formal and how we danced all night. He talked about the protest marches we went on, he talked about sitting on my front porch with my family in the summers and having lemonade. He talked about how stubborn I was and nudged my daughter and guaranteed her that I was still very stubborn.He told her how I would make him walk for miles and miles... but he claimed he never minded. He told my daughter how I made him better himself and how I really fostered his love of reading. He told my daughter how lucky she is to have me as a Momma. Andy told my daughter that I would open the world for her.As that is what I did for him in being his friend.

When we reached my home he helped bring the groceries in and had to fly as he was late for a meeting. He guaranteed me that he was only two minutes away from my house by bike.

He gave us such a gift that day.

He chose to say such wonderful, beautiful ,things, that made me cry inside. He brought me back on a quick trip of nostalgia.

And he gave my daughter a gift.
A gift because my daughter has the opportunity to see me as a young, girl, before my work, before her dad, before the house, before her, a life outside the box of her existance.

And as he got on his bike and turned and waved good bye, we watched him disappear down the road and felt the first drops of rain. My daughter smiled as she watched him, as he became a mere fleck in the horizon with the black clouds and leaves swirling about.

She then turned to me and gave a me a big hug, and then a big tug and with urgency she looked at me, and truly examined my face.
'Momma?'
'Yes Hon,'
'Momma, did you really teach Andy all those things?'
'Ahh, I don't know 'bout that Hon. He always says such nice things'
'Momma, he told me that you are one of his heroes.'
'Ohh'
'Momma, you are my hero, too.'

And as the rain started to trickle down and my daughter hugged me again on the front porch, it made me glad of the moment I was having with my daughter brought on by the wind, the rain, and a chance meeting of my past, catching up with my present.

Ain't Life Grand????

2006-10-11T19:00:00.000-04:00

What's in a word?

We had a scare as a family. My father had been told that he may have prostate cancer.

Cancer is one of those words that is so common in our venacular, and we are not adverse to hearing it on the street about various aquaintances. But no matter how often you hear it, the commonality of the word, does not prepare you.When you hear the word cancer spoken about a loved one it sends you to a place that can only be described as pergotory. That simple word can have the most calm person go into a state of panic for what can be lost forever.

Panic for a life. Panic for the loss of a lifestyle and the quality of life has been taken for granted. Panic laced with a taste of death.

My father had a taste for this word. As he/we had a cancer scare. Having this scare opened up Pandora's Box and all of us seemed to find ourselves in Pandora's Bedroom.

As a child I had certain perimeter that I was willing to explore. As a child I would like to think that my existence on this earth was through immaculate conception. My parents did not have sex to make me. I envisioned the day the heavens opened and released me to earth... Celebrated in my miraculous birth and my parents full of love and wonder with my very being. The fantasy had been dashed away as my parents went on to have three other children besides me.

I am the eldest and believe in a bit of decorum. I believe that there are parimeters in your family life that should not be crossed and talking about my parents' sex life would be top of my list.

I suppose I had a belief that we kept our sexual cards close to our chests. My father was a prude and we never saw him naked. We never mentioned the word sex as a family. But the cancer scare brought the word sex right out into the open air. We learned that my father not only had a prostate but a penis to go along with it.

As my family gathered in my parent's living room, there was talk. There was talk about my dad. There was talk about the prostate. There was talk about his penis. There was talk about his sexuality? There was talk about the fact that he would rather die than not??? Than not??? What word are we saying here?

What are we talking about here? What are we talking? This box is wide open and they, they being my siblings, are all talking and joking about my parents' sex life. I was just listening to them with my mouth hanging open as if witnessing a lovetrain wreck: a sex wreck.

This sex posse went on a diatribe about how 'randy' my parents were/ are. All three seemed to go on with glee as they talked about the walls shaking. They had given my parents sex monikkers.They talked about the fact that my parents need a new bed every four years because they need more 'spring'... I do not know where I have been, or how far in the dark I was/am but glad I have missed on the 'noisemaking' since I left the house twenty three years ago. And I am eternally grateful that my bedroom growing up was far away from theirs. Apparently, my siblings did not have this 'luxury' or so they have bestowed upon me with an endless array of adjectives and adverbs to describe these two people that I have only addressed as 'Mom and Dad'.

Now, my family has me bright red with embarrassment , my mother is busy in the kitchen and my father is in the garage getting all the celebratory livations that are required for having all his children: (apparently the product of his loins) all in one house. And we were all there to be part of the celebrations as he was diagnosed cancer free. He does not have to worry about his 'manhood' for a while yet. 'And if that is not something to celebrate, he does not know what is'....This utterance has not come from his lips, it has come from my sister's.

My father enters the livingroom, his children abruptly seguay into other topics. And decorum has been brought back to his living room with a great sigh of relief from his eldest. As more people arrive, the gathering is becoming more civilized.
I am grateful that the grandchildren have always chosen the comforts of the reckroom for these family gatherings as opposed to the LIVING room with the scoundrels.

There are twelve adults have now meandered into the dining room, in a confined space and one must raise your voice to be heard across the table. One learns very early on to annunciate and support your voice through your diaphram if you want the potatoes passed. A lull in the conversation could be the perfect opportunity to tell a joke. But with so many people gathered there is rarely a lull so one has to pounce fast if you would like the undivided attention of the group.

My elderly, niave, cousin from Ireland, as well as my mother's baby brother have joined in the family dinner. There is a lot of frivolity as the food is passed around the table. There is a wicked sense of life. There is a sense of relief and there is a sense of thankfulness in our moment of all gathering together. We rarely have the luxury of gathering together although we live relatively close. Lives are filled to the brim with commitments and other somewhat benial things to fill our plates. And the fact that the cancer scare has passed it has caused a certain electricity of hope and appreciation for a healthy future and we are all glad to partake in the breaking of the bread together.

Now, I have rarely mentioned my dear, sweet, husband; BoyWonder. BoyWonder tends to like to be 'a mixer': a troublemaker: Johnny Mischief:. He always has a twinkle in his eye and he loves a good laugh. And he loves to razzle my family. He has taken upon himself to be in the centre of the table at this gathering and I am sitting across from him. He is in between my rude sister and my cruder brother.

He has decided to seize the opportunity to report about my younger cousin's band. He decided upon this topic as he knows how to get all these people started. This Pandora's Box has been opened afterall. BoyWonder is just poking at it a bit.

He clears his voice and addresses my father.

He says 'Have you heard of Neil's formed a new band?'

I glare at my husband. The table is too wide for me to kick him. The table is now silent as they are riveted to my dad and WonderBoy's loud conversation of importance.

My dad replies that he has not.

WonderBoy says that they are quite good. And with that he gives me a momentary reprieve. He has me breath a sigh of relief. He makes me think I do not have to whip the mashed potatoes at him. But just as quick as he gives me this gift, he takes it away.
He then sighs, an audible sigh that could be heard over the clattering of utensils on plates. He gives this long sigh and then makes certain that everyone at the table can see his troubled look.

I am going to kill him.

I glare across the table.
He's not!
He's not!
Oh yes he is...

Shame about how rude tha' band's name is. says he.

My dad asks 'how rude can a name be?'

BoyWonder has them all waiting. He has them all without food in their mouths. He has them all watching him.

'Weeeelllll, the band's name is Neil&Bob.'

And with that my crude, ruffians, that claim to be related to me, burst into volcanic laughter... All are laughing except for my mother and my elderly, spinster- could-be/should be-a-nun, cousin.

My mother says'I don't get it'

My cousin says I don't either...

The entire table is crying with laughter...

My mom turns to my dad and is getting angry for not being in on the joke 'What are they laughing at????' she cries.

And to my absolute horror,to my utter horror Dear Reader, from the head of the table, where all eyes are on him, He, my father, my uptight, never talks about sex,but now has a penis and a cancerfree prostate father, looks down the table and says 'Honey! You know...'

And then winks.? Yes, he winks.

My cousin screams in exasperation ' I still do NOT get it!'

My mother is frustrated' I don't either" and glares down the table.

Her younger brother fidgets in midlaugh and says" I don't think you wannna know!'

She rebuffs her younger brother and retorts 'Of course I do. Why would I still be asking?'

And with that, all heads turn to my dad. He clears his throat, and with a bit of embarrassment of a schoolboy caught behind the fence smoking his first cigarette says 'Honey, You know KNEEL and BOB'

He waits to see if it registers. We all turn to her.

Nothing and then, with a sigh, he says it again, except with the actions of a blow job.

My cousin screams' Mother of Gawwwwwwwd!'

My mother blushes and cries 'What kinda rude people have I raised????'

My dad shrugs as it really is NOT his fault. It's BoyWonder's. And he points at my husband and says 'it's his fault!'

I am guilty by being associated with BoyWonder.

My family is howling.

As that dear reader, this is how with a simple word, my entire notion of immaculate conception was blown out of the universe. The image of my father has shattered all the perimeters of my fantasy. My shattered notion of immaculate conception and pretty much every other sacred illusion that has passed my mind about my parents...

De Nile is not only found in Egypt.

2006-09-27T14:03:00.000-04:00

My daughter turns Nine on Saturday.

And amongst the chaos, of preparing for her party under the stars, with her twenty most intimate friends, I want to take the time to reflect on her miraculous birth. It is a time to be thankful for her. It is a time to think how I am blessed by the everyday joys of having her in my life and it is also time to remember how she splashed into my life. Her entry into the world was a cue for wonders and to believe in everyday miracles for they happen everyday sometimes you just need a reminder.

My pregnancy was unique as all pregnancies are. I had a menstrual cycle through the first trimester. I only went to the doctor because I thought I had mono. But while in the doctor's office, waiting to seen, I thought... Just maybe, I could be pregnant.

And pregnant I was. I kept my miraculous secret, a secret for two days as I wanted to tell my husband on Valentine's Day, with baby clothes.I wanted his first Valentine to be from our little Scooter. His first Valentine from his wee baby.

I named my wee zygote Scooter as she scooted past the radar of us. She just scooted into our lives and well into our hearts. When we first heard that beautiful cacophony over the monitor, that whhhhaahhhh whaahhhwhaaa whhaahhh heartbeat and saw her flicker on the monitor, our hearts could not contain our joy. The miracle of a life is something to behold. It certainly had my husband and I star struck as we watched the ultrasound. We could not breath as watched her dance on the monitor before our eyes and with the back drop of the heartbeat had the two of us were riveted to the screen.

We had minor and major hiccups with the pregnancy. At 29 weeks, we had a scare during a full moon when our wee little Scooter wanted to come out. Our midwife met us at the crowded hospital where she called in advance so that I may have a bed. I remember being whisked in and forced to lie in a bed, they attached me to a fetal monitor, and while there was panic all around, I was trying to sing a calming lullaby to my wee Scooter I was trying to coax her to stay in for just a few more weeks. A few more weeks and she would have lungs to help her breath and she would not be torn away from us.
And somehow, through no medical intervention, she decided to stay inside until the day she was due. No rhyme or reason, she opted to stay in.

On September 30th at 6a.m. I had my first contraction.

Actually, that's a lie.

My first contraction happened the day before when I was running to catch the bus in the middle of a downtown intersection. I was tying up loose ends at work as my baby was due on September 30th, I had back to back meetings. I was running late when I saw the offending bus.
I ran,
and Owwww!!!
Whoa!!!!!! THE PAIN !
I remember just stopping on the street.
I remember holding the side of a skyscraper with my right hand and my left hand was on my belly. Just one sharp hit and it had me breathless, and I was holding myself up.

It was such a shock that I am certain I howled. I am certain I must have grunted.

Somehow I was not heard or noticed, as I had my first contraction. People kept walking with purpose all around me and there I was motionless and for a brief moment without air.
This contraction that was so unexpected that it did feel like a kick through my spleen.
I breathed in, I breathed out. I breathed in and ooooooout.
And the pain past, just as the people around me did. They fluttered about their business, while I stayed for a brief moment in suspended animation. When oxygen came back to my head and I could find my legs, I continued on my way.
I gingerly walked to the bus stop and waited for the next bus and my composure to return so that I could finish my meetings for the day.

After, tidying all my loose ends at the office, you find me on September 30th at 6am feeling my second contraction while lying in bed. It is a mild taste of yesterday and I am able to function as a normal human being.

I go to use the loo and there is the bloody show. The time has come. My baby is coming. I go back and lie in bed and listen to the birds chirping and the warm autumn air drifting through my open bedroom window. I am going to meet my baby today. I am going to be able to smell her, to hold her, to see her eyes, feel her skin, I am going to be able to nurse her in my arms.

I am talking myself through the day. I am envisioning a bath, I am envisioning a back rub from my husband and while I am 'dreaming' of the activities the pain begins to mount.

At 7:30am the alarm clock goes off. My husband, Boy Wonder wakes up. I tell him I am in labor. He smiles, kisses my belly and goes downstairs to take a SHOWER????

He is whistling in the shower, he is listening to the news, he is having a normal day.

Meanwhile, I rise from our bed descend to our second floor and begin pacing the halls. Walking back and forth. Millions of thoughts of self doubt are swarming through my mind in a flurry of contractions.

Boy Wonder turns on the radio in the bathroom. Boy Wonder shaves. Boy Wonder brushes his teeth. Boy Wonder tests the water. Boy Wonder takes a shower. Boy Wonder combs his hair. Boy Wonder gets ready for WORK?

I have opted to lie in our prepared birthing bed on the second floor, I am in the fetal position, he walks in and plops himself down in the rocking chair in the corner of the room.I look up. He begins to rock himself, his eyes meet mine. He looks at what he is wearing and then cautiously says'I guuuuueeess,I'mmNNNOOOOOOTgoingtowooork?'

I drag myself up from the birthing bed and pass the smiling, the freshly showered, the humorous, the 'non working ',clean man, rocking contently in our rocking chair, in our birthing room.

I start to walk the hall again. I go to one end of the long narrow hall then when I reach the end I return. Back and forth, back and forth. And all the while thoughts are zooming through my head as the contractions build. I am transported to an open field in sixty five years ago to where my grandmother is giving birth alone, I am in the hospital wing where my mother is in her 24th hour of labor on the hottest day of the year with no ventalation. I am thinking of my paternal grandmother giving birth to my father who was her first and weighed in at twelve pounds thirteen ounces. I think of all the birth stories that I have been told to me. I wince through then all and I think I am so unworthy of THIS club. This club, this club of endurance. What made me think I could be a mother?

I then talk myself through the fact that I can not walk away from pain I have to walk through it.

I re-enter my birthing room. My Boy Wonder has now changed into his birthing clothes. He slides himself down on the rocking chair and asks if I have seen his book.
He finds his book and proudly shows me the cover triumphantly, 'The Birth Partner' says he... HE cracks it open and reads aloud 'Chapter One... '

Now, Dear Reader, do not hate him. Boy Wonder went to every appointment with me to see my midwife. He went to the birthing classes. Heck, he even took a parenting class. He just did not do the last bit of homework and now he is cramming.

It is around 9:50 am.

I haul myself up again and walk down the hall to reevaluate my inadequacies in the birthing department.

When, what do I hear from down the hall?
Power tools?
Yes, that is exactly what I heard POWER TOOLS!

I walk towards the noise, towards the birthing room and there, there, in the birthing room is my Boy Wonder installing a new light fixture. I scowl at him as I slink back in the bed.
He then proudly points to a chart that he has made while I was 'away'.

He then says 'Oh, you should be having a contraction!' he says with enthusiasm,
and with that it came...
he timed it... as well as a many others.

and then the phone rings...
He answers it????What tha???? Yes, Dear Reader, he answered the phone.
it is one of my clients... I had a contraction, while Boy Wonder was on the phone with my client. My client then informs him that it would be in his best interest NOT to pick up another call.

Anyway back to us...
Back to the ' uncommunicative wife' and the Birth Partner. The Birth Partner has decided that I am not communicating appropriately, so he calls our midwife at 10:30 am. She tells him, that I have a longway to go and that I have to remain focused. She will arrive at our house at 1pm to help. She then asks to speak to me.

One thing about me Dear Reader, I have a very high pain threshold. And Dear Reader, I was able to 'talk' during a contraction. Our midwife had no idea about how far along I could be. Apparently women should not be able to talk while in full labor and who would have thought that I could have defied what the norm was.

Now, as I mentioned our midwife gave my husband instructions. She told him that I had to remain 'focused'. But focused to a woman in labor and focused to a man that is freshly showered and with power tools mean entirely different things. He took this cue or me needing to remain 'focused' as a perfect time to install a baby mobile above the birthing bed. I took this as a 'cue' to take a walk down the hall and think of ways to distract me from killing him.

When I slunk back the room holding my belly, I saw him smiling in the rockingchair, the showered face, the brushed teeth, the power drill in his left hand, the chart on the table, the Winnie the Pooh baby mobile above the bed...I just said,quite calmly 'You turn that thing and you die!'

I lay there for about a half an hour and then I started pacing again.

And then Dear Reader it all unfolded.
I wanted to relieve the pressure. My water had not broken. I knew it was going to be a long arduous day. But if the sac would just break.

I am focused and think if I just go to the washroom.

At this point my husband has had all he could bare with me. He tries to call the midwife's pager again and this time he reaches a pizza delivery place. He hangs up and calls again. Again it goes not to our midwife's pager but to a corporate switchboard. I should mention, that he did call the proper numbers. But while he was calling, a satellite crashed to earth and took down all paging systems from around the world for ten minutes.

10 minutes of not reaching vital number.

Boy Wonder after one minute of not getting through begins to panic. He makes an executive decision to call the landline of the midwives. He gets a hold of the receptionist and informs her that he needs to talk to a midwife. He thinks that things are really beginning to happen as he says this, I push.
I scream.
He comes running into our bathroom with our portable phone and places the phone on the counter as he yells 'Oh My Gawd,It's the Baby!'

And I yell back that ' IT IS NOT!!!!'
I stand up and everything goes back in.
My husband screams back 'If it is not the baby you are in BIG TROUBLE!!!!'

Now, in Celtic folklore, being born in the cull/sac is one of the luckiest thing that can happen to a person. There is a belief that very few are and it is very special. To be born in the cull is looked upon as a miracle. Well, that was certainly the case with us, as I sat on the loo and pushed to relieve the pressure. Three strong guttural pushes and the baby came out in the cull.
The sac broke my baby's fall as she hit the toilet.

The cull exploded.
The umbilical chord snapped.
The chord snapped, in the right place.

I get up. My legs are shaking and I am hemorrhaging.
I try to get my baby out of the toilet. I can not stand. My husband, pushes me aside and knows from years of experience to move the seat UP, and he picks up our beautiful daughter who has not cried at all. She is just looking all around her like a sage, ole creature.

One thing I have not mentioned through this story has been the fact that I had a dream months before giving birth. I had a dream about my daughter's birth. In my dream I was all alone upstairs in my bathroom and the windows were closed and I could not call for help. In my dream, there was 'a voice 'that kept saying everything was going to be okay. In my dream, it told me to go to the tub to deliver.
And so I followed my dream. And I trusted the voice. I went to the tub, our great Victorian tub which supported my back and my legs and helped me deliver the placenta. I would never have thought of that on my own. It was a perfect place for me to squat. A perfect place to sit and breath.In and out, in and out.

And then the world came hurdling back to us.

We could hear the midwives screaming from the portable phone on the counter'PICK UP PICK UP!PICK UP!'

My Boy Wonder, my hero, picks up the phone, the midwives tell him to give me the baby or I will go into shock if I am not physically responsible for the baby. They also tell them that they have called emergency services and he better get down stairs and open up or they will break down our door to get to us.

They also instruct him to give me the phone.

They start telling me to hold the where the umbilical chord broke, they tell me that Iam the strongest woman alive, they tell me that help is on its way and to stay with them...
And all they while I am holding the umbilical chord, and my daughter and I are just looking at each other.

The paramedics arrive in a matter of minutes.
They take my baby from me and give her to my husband, they also give him a list of things they need from him from our house and then they start ot work on me.
I know that the situation is not good because they will not look in my eyes. They are just focused on trying to stabiize me. I want them to notice me. I want them to hear the voice too.
I want them to stop panicking.
I read one of the guy's names from his badge. 'Jim.'
'Jim!' he stops 'Jim, do you have any kids?'
'Yes'
'How many, Jim?'
'Three.'
'Jim, after each one, everything was all right, right?'
'Right.'
'Well, Jim, everything is going to be okay.Everything is going to be okay' and with that he looked into my eyes and I had him repeat after me.' Everything is going to be okay.'
He nodded and he paused. He looked at me in my eyes. I knew he saw me then. I knew that he saw me as a human. I knew that I was there and he saw me, not just a body that was bleeding away.
I had an IV, I was on a heart monitor and then my 'back up' midwife arrived.

She flashes a badge and said that she is legally allowed to give me these drugs.
And with that she injects me in my left thigh.
She then injects my right thigh.
With the help of the paramedics I get out of the bathtub and I am walked to my birthing room.

The midwife goes to work on stopping the clotts from traveling to my brain.
This basically means that the midwife sits on my chest and beats my stomach for close to twenty minutes.

No one EVER told me about the beating!

The paramedics are not allowed to leave me with the IV. The midwife is not allowed to take it out. Nor is she allowed to touch the heart monitor. The paramedics can not touch the drugs, nor can they touch the baby's med pac.
Very strange as it is all legal mumbo jumbo... But the paramedics and the midwife have to work as a team as the hospitals were in a crisis mode and not taking on any new patients.So this emergency team must work together so they can stabilize me as there is nowhere to go. I will die if the bleeding does not stop.
The drugs start to take affect. I am stabilizing but will need a bit more medical attention from the midwife and I certainly need the IV for another hour or so.

As the midwife works on my body, the paramedics clean up my bathroom. There was blood through out the bathroom and being the compassionate, caring people that they were, they took it upon themselves to clean my bathroom ceilings, floors and walls. They believed that I should never see it.

Our main midwife arrived when all the chaos had passed and my Boy Wonder had to talk the midwife out of the shock of missing the birth of Scooter. She had been a midwife for 20 years and this thing just does not happen. She has never missed a birth. She cries about all that could have happened. Boy Wonder consoles her.

The rest seems so inconsequential as the midwives took an hour to knit me back together, how they ensured that I had enough fluids in my body, how the administered Vitamin K into my baby, how they took all the vitals of Scooter, how the midwives gave my husband some drugs for him to cope with the shock. (He claims that he was just fine, but I do not think that if he was complete control of his faculties as he would have given me the phone to talk to my father when the midwives were knitting me back together...)

This story has been told a great deal of times by us. It is a story of my daughter's birth and my near demise. It is a story that still causes my husband to be overwhelmed with emotion when he gets to the part with the paramedics. The paramedics were taking control when he realized how out of control it all became. The paramedics allowed him to take in the whole story.

It is the story of how we became a family and when my daughter splashed onto the scene at 11:45pm and when the midwives left us at 6pm.

I do not know if I can say with a certainty that fate helped my wee family. I do not know if I would think of us as special as aren't we all? I would say that I do think of most days as having some kind of miracle in them, and sometimes we need to take the time to find it.

I can say that within my heart I am so eternally thankful for having each day.I am so grateful that I am watching my beautiful, wonderful, daughter, flourish. I am beholden with her laughter, her sense of being and her love of song.I am grateful that I can witness her endless compassion. I am grateful that I have the strength to stand by her as she makes mistakes. I am grateful for when I am there to watch her succeed. I am grateful to be there for when she struggles. I am so fortunate that I have experienced nine years of her. I am so fortunate to be part of her cognitive memory. And that she has filled my soul with wonders as she has been growing up.

And while her birth is just part of her story. It was only her entry. I know that someday she will ask for the whole story. The story of her birth. The story that may have her envisioning me walking down the hall and her dad with power tools.

I rarely think of what could have been lost that day. I only think of what I have. And what I have is a great story for my daughter to envision. What I have is a most wonderful husband that could never bare to think of me in pain, much less dying and not spending the rest of his life with me and power tools. What I have is truly a wonderful life with endless moments of miracles in being. And on my daughter's birthday it is just nice to have the reminder.

2006-09-22T13:57:00.000-04:00

Neil Sedaka - Calendar Girl

A Girl's Slumber Party.

I am about eleven years old. I am too old for dolls and too young for boys. It is an awkward time to be a girl. That is, unless you have your absolute best friends around and then all fits into place.

This song brings me right back to my bedroom on the third floor in my house in the city. This brings me back to me standing beside my record player and playing this 45 that I just inherited from an old uncle of mine. I would play it over and over and all my girlfriends would take turns dancing, singing and miming out the song. Each time the song played, the campiness of our dancing and our singing would put any Dean Martin Roast to shame. We would squeal and laugh and fall onto my bed and play it again. We would all be wearing our comfortable pj's. We would have our sleeping bags and best junk food littered on the floor. We were young. We had each other.And we had years of friendship under our flannel belts.

I grew up in an age before MTV really got its groove. If you even want to call it a groove now. I grew up LOVING musicals.I could sing the entire score to Fiddler on the Roof and force my friends to play various characters. I grew up listening to Bing Crosby. My parents did not listen to any of this. It was just me, an odd quirky girl. A girl that could persuade her friends to listen to all types of music. I grew up listening to Frank Sinatra mixed in with the Rolling Stones, David Bowie, twinged with Elvis'69 comeback special. I grew up listening to the Jackson 5 and the Osmonds. I grew up to The Beatles and the Monkees. I grew up listening to The Bay City Rollers, Bobby Darren and Eartha Kitt. I grew up listening to Peter,Paul and Mary laced with a bit of Genesis and a whole lot of disco. The time I am bringing you to is before I began to contemplate that Paul McCartney may be dead and talk for hours on the phone of the evidence that sergeant Pepper's produced. I am talking about a period before I found the Sex Pistols and The Ramones. I am talking about a time when I could belt out the words to Cocaine by Eric Clapton and not think what the song was about. And heck, I would sing Rod Stewart's Tonight's the Night at the top of my lungs, much to my prudent, Roman Catholic, father's chagrin. I had not idea it was about THAT!

I grew up in a city. I grew up in a time when you could not order Indian food for delivery. Or there was maybe one Japanese restaurant in the city. Thai was not even heard about in my social circle for a meal. Chinese food was laddened in glow in the dark syrup and a great MSG glow. Pizza was the food of choice for delivery. It was filled with waxy type cheese and pepperoni and always seem to arrive a wee bit soggy.

But at the same time I grew up in a time of new immigrants. My best friends were German, Greek, Japanese and Pakistani and Ukrainian. How's that for a mix?

I would remember each friend and our wee traditions. With my girlfriend Naseem, I would attempt to learn Arabic, I would be part of the daily prayers. I even had my own prayer matt when visiting.I could pray to whatever God I chose. But would have to respect that they were praying too. After, we would finish our prayers we would quickly go back to our Nancy Drews, or our Archie comics laced with a bit of the Trixie Beldon. We would always have Indian music in the background and the smell of delicious curries would permeate the house. The house was filled with exotic women in saris of all different colours. Most of the men wore white and always barefoot in sandals no matter what the weather.

At my German girlfriend's house we would go into the backyard where my girlfriend's father would be building his own airplane for the family to fly to the cottage in.He was always tinkering with his inventions and when we would bore of him, we would then go downstairs where would would make pottery as my girlfriend's mother had a kiln and clay for us to weld our creations.At the end of the day, we would listen to her father play the piano, Beethoven of course... and sometimes he would add a bit of Mozart to his repetoire. We would sit in the living room as her father would give us a recital. And you know, we gobbled it up.We loved to hear him play. We would always insist that he end it with dadadadummmm... from Beethovan's fifth symphony... He would never fail to explain that it was a symphony and we would just look at him and say... Just play the DaDA DaDummmmmm part then...

At my Greek girlfriends house we would enjoy the yoghurt cheese and talk about our love for the Bay City Rollers. We would listen to disco music and try out our best disco moves. For the important Greek Orthodox holidays we were forced to dress in our finest and go to church with Maria. We were forced into all the pageantry as Maria's uncle was one of the highest priests in church.And it was magical with all the gold and we would sit in the pews of honor with Maria's entire extended family. One of my girlfriends caused quite the stir one year as she crossed her legs in church... Apparently that is a BIG NONO!!! And when the service was over, we would all file back to Maria's family's house where Greek music would play and only loud dialogue was spoken.

At my girlfriend Kimiko's house we would be enthralled with the pageantry of being Japanese. Her Grandparents lived upstairs and her parents lived downstairs. Her Grandfather would take enormous pride in his garden. There were exotic flowers and bushes that were cut into the most exquisite shapes. It was easy to think of yourself as a regal princess in his garden in the city. Even when we played Charlie's Angels and we were fighting off vile villains, the garden was where Charlie lived.And we Angels were just visiting with Bosley.
Kimiko's grandmother wore kimonoes of the most beautiful silks. Her hands were always manicured and lotions were always used. Her hair was always in a bun and it was never out of place. She was a most gracious woman and would be calm even when all us girls would descend upon her. The rice steamer was never off.I remember large banquets upstairs with endless arrays of cantaloupe and melon that were the sweetest I have ever tasted. And the orange that were always cut and on display were always bursting with juice. Everything looked beautiful. They never had small dinner parties. There was never less than 40 family members gathered around their table eating and talking in Japanese with us girls running in to grab some sushi from the table and run into our makeshift fort downstairs.
I remember gathering all of our snacks together. I was the offical 'wrapper eater' as I did not care for the Japanese candy but loved eating the rice wrappers from the candies.

The Ukrainian household was a great deal like my own.(But my house was also ensconced with the Irish traditions as well) Where we would eat borscht and Vareneky and Holobtchi and could eat spoonfuls of sour cream. Where there would be songs from the old country. Where there would be thick accents and pinches on the cheek to say that we were all too thin. The conversations were always around the table. There would be a circle of woman making vareneky(Peorogis if you are Polish). The tea towels would be laid out while the women gossiped and had tea while attending to the task at hand. There would be thousands of little dumplings all laidout and the house was always humid with the boiling of soup to accompany the evening meal.

Through all the ethnic diversity we grew up together. We knew all of our traditions We incorporate them all. Christmas Eve was very important for my German girlfriend, so we would all descend on her family for the lighting of the candles.We knew about Ramadan. We all attempted to fast. We knew about bad Japanese movies. We watched countless ones where with bad Japanese accents we would fill in the missing dialogue. We learned about how the Japanese were interned during World War II. We learnt about the Nazis, we learnt about the resistance in Germany , we learned Greek songs and attempted to learn Ukrainian.

And now, in my city I can order Sushi. I can order Chinese, Vietnamese, Korean, Greek Indian or anything else I chose.

But my life is not peppered and seasoned with the truly ethnic experience I grew up with. All of my gal pals have married and have taken very different paths. They all live in the suburbs and I am the only one that has opted for the city life. My Greek girlfriend married a Hindu boy, my German girlriend married an American, my Japanese girlfriend married a Spaniard, my Ukrainian girlfriend married a Dominican , and my Pakistani girlfriend had an arranged marriage at the age of 16 that had all of us in a tears.

But for a brief moment... Through this song. They are back at my house. We are upstairs and we are full of promise. We are giggling and being told to quiet down which causes us to laugh harder. We are too old for dolls and too young for boys... And we are all Calendar Girls!

2006-09-17T09:13:00.000-04:00

A Technicolor Dreamcoat?

He saw her at a dance. He can not recall what she wore. He can just recall the moment he saw her. He can only recall the feeling in his stomach. The urgency, in his being, his destination.

He turned to his friend and said 'I am going to marry Her!'

The friend had been listening to the music and scoping the room for a girl to dance with.The friend was just about to cross the room when it dawned on him, his friend had just something?

What? Who? Who are you going to marry?

Her, That girl over there...The boy's friend adjusts his glasses ands takes a better look..

Oh, I don't think so! I went to grade school with her... And you are not going to marry her! You are not on her radar, Bub! She has career plans... Marriage is not in her mind...Have? Have you, even met her?

No, But I am going to right now.

And with that comment suspended in the air, the boy left his friend alone at the other end of the room and went to meet his wife.

She does not recall the dance. She does not recall any urgency upon meeting him. She just remembers dancing all night with him. Every dance was with him.

And on the third date He proposed, at a movie theatre over the buttered popcorn and a soda. He gulped down his pride, straightened himself up, stared at the curtain and asked... 'Will you marry me?' No ring. Just a statement/question.

She laughed as the curtain went up at the movie theatre and the song 'More' by Bobby Darrin started to play. He laughed and said, 'They are even playing our song.'

He took her laughter as a 'Yes' for it certainly was not a no....

He was on top of the world and was glad that his destination was sealed.

Little did She know.

The following day, He went to her family's home to ask her father. Her father was a large, hulking, new immigrant with hands the size of baseball mitts. English was not his first language. He was an overpowering figure to this scrawny nineteen year old boy who was all bones through his suit. This man escaped through the mountains, with his wife and eldest daughter when his family was being persecuted in his old country.This man had helped build a railroad, had slept in ditches to bring his family to this country. This father had been a farmer. This man knew sorrow. This man knew great happiness.This man wanted the best for his youngest daughter.

This boy went through the doors of his betroved house, as He knew He would bring her happiness. I know He thought this, as how else could He have had the courage to go through the door?

I do not know what they talked about. But permission was granted to this boy on the cusp of his twentieth birthday. On the cusp of a new life.

When the girl returned home from a day of shopping with her girlfriends, She was flabbergasted that He was serious. That He DID propose in the movie theatre.
And when She really thought about it, when She sat down and looked at him, her heart filled with joy. A joy that She did not know that She was in need of, until then. She realized that She did say 'Yes!' at the movie theatre, ... And that She, She who had not looked for him, now, could not imagine life without him.

They married 42 years ago.They married in sunshine with the father of the bride crying the entire way down the aisle with his youngest daughter in duchess satin.This boy and girl, this husband and wife, married with a trust of the future with the security of a love everlasting in their hearts.

Beginnings are always beautiful to talk about. They are what most people can relate to,as everyone has had a beginning, just as everyone has known an end.

And I am happy to say, there has not been an end.

The middle is the hard part to talk about. The middle is where it is messy. the middle is what gives the fabric of life its substance. The middle is filled with births and deaths, the middle is filled with sunrises and sunsets, the daily coffees at the kitchen table, the cups of tea in the evenings in the reckroom, the laughter and the incredible pain, the lovemaking and the fights,the dances and the walks, the friends and the family, the moments of endless phone calls to each oher, the loveletters that are still left on the kitchen table with their nicknames for eachother enscribed at the end, the days are filled still with each other, the nights are still spent on a double bed, the nights and the days, the hours and the weeks, can all conveniently blend into one, in a narrative.

But when I think of trying to even encapsolate this couple I am at a loss. A loss because it all would seem trite. The fabric of this marriage, this life together has many interesting stitches, Some have given way in the centre where there a huge gaping holes and other spots have had shoddy patches placed overtop. There is duchess satin and Egyptian cotton, there is burlap as there are parts othe heavens, there are a few stars and many tears, and I do not know how but I am certain that laughter is embedded in the fabric, just as trust and compassion, but just as there is this, there is also rage, there is also anger and there is passion that can not be wasted on the faint of heart. This beautiful blanket allows for others to come in and be enveloped in its beauty. This blanket covers the couple at night, as they have their gentle slumbers or turbulant nightmares. This blanket nourished me as a young girl and as a grown woman.

This blanket helped me through a few storms.It has been a beacon of hope for many.

And on September 18th.I hope that you will raise a glass with me and toast the 42 years of my parents. A lovestory with a beginning and a middle... And for the grace of god, or fate, or whatever you want to call it, no end.

2006-09-08T09:22:00.000-04:00

The Year of Heroes and Villans

September is filled with a great deal of emotion for this old girl... This time of year is filled to the brim with memory. And yesterday September 10th is a big day for me, as that is the last time I saw my best friend. He flew here from New York City to be a part of my daughter's first day of school. He came to my country to be a part of our family moment. A family that he loved. It was his first voyage to a foreign country since his kidney surgery. A surgery that left him minus a rib, his adrenal glands and both kidneys. He came to my country with a sense of hope for the future. He came to my country in a great deal of pain.

He came to my country to grab his independence back. To realize that the machines that sustained him would not bind him. He was determined to travel again. But just for brief stints as he did love his city so, and New York was home.

I sit on my porch and there under my welcome matt,is the deliable imprint on my bestfriend's shoeprint from that maiden voyage. My husband painstakenly paints around it every two years... But there is a footprint stays on my front porch as a reminder of his last visit in September 2001. A print that always has me sigh, laugh and cry all at the same time, as I recall him stepping on the newly painted porch and all of our laughter at the folly at the time.

My dear friend, that passed away was the embodiment of New York. He was born in New York. He was raised in New York. He grew up with his family on the upper east side in a beautiful brownstone house that housed the last greenhouse ever to be built in a home in Manhattan. Central Park was his playground and the city restaurants were his cafeteria.He loved theatre, he loved art, he loved culture and ethnic diversity. He could have all of it in his great city.

He was jaded and rough, at the same time, having the refined witt and grace of an educated socialite.He grew up on the upper east side but had the edge of being an outcast as he was gay and grew up in a time when he was ostracized by his family and society itself.

He stuck with his fair city through thick and thin, in good times and in bad. He was in New York for the Stonewall Riots and would cry as he would relay all that happened on that day. He would relay in full account of the abuse he faced in the riots all due to what he was. He could cry for what New York did to him and his friends on that day. But through his tears there was forgiveness.

When New York was going broke, he invested. He adored his fair city with the warts and the tinsel. He knew that New York would rise again. He never abandoned hope for his city.

We would walk through Central Park and he would show me where he would sled as a child, or where he would have boat races with his three older brothers. He would show with some twisted sense of pride where he was first beat up as a kid, or how he was robbed at gun point at the age of 20, only having the Guardian Angels rescue him. He would show me murals from graffitti artists that he would enjoy, or go to the MET and marvel at an extraordinary new addition to the walls.

All street corners and stoops had stories.He would recall when he lived in the Dakota how he would have tea with his neighbour Lenny... Or to all of us, this man would have been Mr.Leonard Bernstien. He would relay stories of Dakota and all its legends and ghosts that wandered its halls. I remember entering the lobby of the Dakota and he said 'And this is where John Lennon died.Right here. The three consierges here tried to save him.They tried with all their might. But he died in their arms. Right here, in the fourth stair'

He was a playwright and always used his fair city as a reference.

He was also business suavy and as a result he invested and made his own money. He knew the business world and could manuever around his finances with great ease.He was a New Yorker that believed in knowing your banker and where his fair city had instabanks, he never trusted them. He would always go to his branch, deal face to face with his banker. He felt that you always had to have a face and respect for money. So every time he went abroad he would take out an extrodinary amount of money to last him his vacation. And he would always have a budget for all that he did.

He could take me on walks and show me with great delight the oldest bar in New York and know the whole history of the place. He could tell you how the bar was actually saved by Jackie Kennedy, as it was one of the Irish bars that Jack adored. He could tell you about Jane Mansfield living two doors down from his house. He would talk of his mother sending Ms. Mansfield a letter written on linen stationary scented with roses.The letter addressed to Ms. Mansfield was not a fan letter but a letter to remind the young starlit to pick up after her dog.

He would talk about the great performers of Central Park. The amazing puppetteers that come out every Sunday and give some of the best performances that New York has to offer and all they want is a small donation in their cap. Whenever my daughter and I were with him he would always discreetly put in at least 100 dollar as he knew what it was like to go hungry. To be poor and give art to the mases is never easy. And he never wanted New Yorkers to miss out on such talent. Street performers were part of the fabric of his city and he felt accessible art helped bind his fellow man.

Outside his place on Sundays or Monday nights there would be homelessmen, and these men would set up televisions ouside my friend's home, along with lazyboy chairs, popcorn and beer and have a long wire running from my friend's place as they pirated his cable and his electricity so they could watch their football games. They would always nodd, call him by his name and let him know the score, later on in life they would also tell me if my daughter was up to mischief in the house...Always referring to my daughter as the Wee Miss...

He would not suffer fools lightly and it would not matter if we were in a play or in a cab, if the person did not know their trade his tongue could be ever so wicked. I remember a few plays where he got up and just threw his insult as we left. Sad to say,it would also happen in restaurants as well. And coming from a city where we are all polite and manners it would just send me into manic spasms.

He would take me to endless restaurants and simply go to different planets when he tasted something delicious. He would bang his spoon down and cry with delight exclaiming that he could just lick the plate. He would boast how restaurants were now the biggest tourist attraction in New York. He would take me to all the great restaurants and cute greasy spoons he found through his 57 years of living in New York. He would just love to dress for dinner. And would always gasp in delight, whenever his chosen family entered a room. He would marvel at how we,his family, could clean up for dinner.

And the way he could hail a New York cab was a thing of beauty to bestow. The hand discreetly up like that of Nuryev or Barishnikov. My daughter has since perfected the stance and I enjoy thinking of how he would have loved to see her now.

He was an excellent host. And when in his fair city you knew anything could happen.

That is, until the impossible did.

I remember watching in dismay as I saw the World Trade Center on fire.How my stomach ached when I saw the plane hit the tower. I automatically called my friend. The phone lines were down and panic filled my heart. When the towers crashed. I had to talk with him. I had to hear his voice. I had to hear hope. I had to touch New York.

The phone lines were jammed for close to three hours on September 11th. I heard from my dear friend at 12:18pm. I sighed and cried.
He scolded me.
He asked me 'how I could think that he would be down in the financial district?He hadn't been down that way for close to 15 years'
And I asked 'what were the chances of two planes hitting the WorldTrade Center?'
I had been there, with my daughter in the mornings. And it is not an odd phenomena to be down to visit the World Trade Center.

The odd thing was he was grappling to be that logical New Yorker. He was hurt and angry. He did not know where to turn. New York a city filled with hope. Filled with tinsel and now the air was filled with dust and debris. You could taste the residue from the buildings and the airplanes in the air. He could not get thetaste out of his mouth. He could not breath. The smell was overpowering. The smell was suffocating him. The smell was filled with dispair.

He had been to my house for close to ten days and had just returned to his city. On September 11th, He was on his way to the bank when to second plane hit.He went to a bank to withdraw money and was informed that the banks had closed.He was informed that the subways were closed. He was informed that New York was closed. Closed.

He, as New Yorkers are, are prized fighters. Nothing was going to get them down. Clean themselves up, put on a brave face and do not let them see your tears. The show must go on...

He wanted to grab something that was normal. Something to prove that New York would go on. And on September 11th there was no hope.
It was so overwhelming that New York stopped. And New Yorkers cried. As did the world.

It seems very fitting that my best friend died in the year of heros and villans.He died on December 20, 2001.My husband said it was kind of him to pass on the eve of winter solstice so that we would have the darkest day of the year to mourn him...
But I reminded him, that the darkest day already passed.

So as the anniversary of September 11th approaches. I am on my porch and thinking of the last time I saw my dear friend. I think of all that was lost in my heart in 2001 and the wonderful careless footprint under my welcome matt on my front porch.

2006-08-24T09:52:00.000-04:00

Man,I Feel Like A Woman???

Nothing like getting together with some galpals and breaking bread. It had been a long time. I am the only one with a kid and therefore my girlfriends built the whole night around me.They are all still single and they get together all the time. I am the one who is out of the loop. I was grateful that they were building the night around me. It made me feel special and wanted. And dare,I say it???'Carefree, childless and husbandless...'
it was a bit liberating to just be plain ole me'

I got ready. I even let my hair down,I put make up on. I dressed in an 'unkid friendly' way!
My daughter enters the bathroom and exclaims 'Momma you look beautiful!' This sends shivers down my spine, as I think of a http://dribblingwitt.blogspot.com/2006/06/just-click-your-heels-together-three.html.

My husband follows her, hears the dialogue between the two of us and then interjects with 'No, hon you look good in a GOOD way!' which translates into' No, Hon you do NOT look like a HOOKER!'
So, with one more look in the mirror, a double check for wallet and keys, I am off to the races.

I walk briskly up the street clicking my high heels and feeling invigorated. A night out with the girls is just what I need. A pit stop to refuel for the day to day.

I wait at the streetcar stop and then head on ...

Now, I have been in a bartender in my pastlife. I know the drill. I know that at one drink you, may tell me a story, but at 8 drinks I become the most gorgeous woman in the room. Liquor does that to people.
I walk onto my streetcar and there are three guys who have had at least 15 drinks each and I am the only woman on the car.

They start to scream... 'Ohh, my gawwd!!! Guyssss!!! Cannnnnn you believe it?'
'Can you believe our luck?'
'I know that she lived here at one time! But Fuck! It's her! It's heeeeeerrrrr!'

'Mother-of-God, not AGAIN!!'! think I!

They then belt 'Shania, come oooooon give ussssssssssss a soooonnnnnng!!!.
They start to show themselves as loyal and true fans,of mine, by 'singing' and crooning all of Shania's repetoire.
And as the serenade continues, I stare out the window, willing the streetcar forward to put myself and the other patrons out of the Shania Mania misery that has ensued.

As I am pushing the streetcar forward to telepathy. I watch a woman at the stop ahead. She is in her early twenties. Her hair has recently been cut into a bobb as she keeps trying to put her hair behind her ears and it keeps falling off its target. She is reading a hardcover book. She is carrying a yellow, burlap bag that has buttons stuck on the straps. She occasionally looks up to see how far the streetcar has inched forward.
A man in his early twenties runs up the street. He is in a rush. He is bouncing from one leg to the other . He is late for something. And he is preoccupied with the bouncing as if the streetcar will reach him faster if he bounces faster and shows his anxiety.
And then, dear reader, he sees 'my lady'.
He sees her...
and his world stops...
You can actually see the world stop!
He stops bouncing. And he just stares.
My streetcar lurches forward. It lurches to an abrupt stop.
Which causes my fans to stop singing... The say, Wellllll Shannnnnnniaaaa, this isssssssss oursssssssstoauuuuupppppp... Ev'n iffff you are a snob we sssstilll love ya kid...
and with that the leave me with "Man I feel like a woman!'

The young lady boards my streetcar along with the young man in tow.
They sit in the seats directly behind me just recently been vacated by the Shania fan club.
The young mand musters the courage to ask her what she is reading.
She replies that it is just a book of poetry...
He knows the poets and lists off a few that he likes... and they are off to the races...
Our streetcar is now going at lightning speed and we enter the subway before we know it. The exit in front of me and I follow at a respectable distance down to the subway.

They stop abruptly.

and she says...Well, I am going west'
Ohh, says he... I am going east
Well, says she, That was nice... See you around...
Ahh, yeah, It was nice.

And with that she heads towards the westbound platform and he is in front of me walking down the stairs for the eastbound platform...

'I am staring at his head. I am putting in all me telepathy... What are you doing man???That WAS nice????'
'Where are you going?????'

And then he stops halfway down the staircase.
He is fumbling with his pockets. He is looking for something... What??? A Pen ? A paper?

I can hear the subway breaks screeching...'Idiot, What are you doing???' My heart is racing!!!

Ahhh, he finds what he is looking for... His Businesscard!!!

He turns around abruptly and runs up the stairs, three steps at a time!!!

I rush down....

I look across the medium for the girl going west... She is not there??? Ahhh, there she is but I hear the subway... Where is he???
I see him. He is looking for her. He sees her. He runs. He reaches her. He taps her on the shoulder.
She smiles.
He smiles.
He gives her his card.
And then my subway arrives.

I board.
I am Euphoric?????
Yes, I am Euphoric!!!!

I meet my girlfriends and relay the story to them.
They are good friends who know the fine art of listening.
They only interject with...
And then????
And then???
Awwwweeee!!!!
And did he???
Ohhhh...
and,
YES!!!!
We had a wonderful time.

And at the end of the evening my girlfriends serenade me to 'Man, I feel Like a woman!'
Man, that woman has fans everywhere! Who would have thunk???

2006-08-18T09:17:00.000-04:00

What Advice Do You Follow???

As a kid you are given endless pieces of advice... There are pieces that stick and there are those that just fly by...

There is a great deal of my life that is twinged my gaelic superstition...
Like you NEVER put new shoes on a table...
Itchy nose... Means you are going to have an argument or your going to be kissed by a fool... So if you do not think you are going to kiss the person you are with, quickly shake their hand so your ties of friendship may not be broken through the argument...

My homicide detective dad would cringe as his mother would bestow such advise... and then go into his own diatribe..Like if a guy is asking for directions do you give him directions?

The answer is no... For what the hell is a guy asking for directions of a girl for... The jails are littered with guys that succeeded in getting directions...Men are what fill jails... And it is not up to you to figure out which ones are the good guys...

and if he would then go on with if I ever found myself to to be lost... I was to only go to a mother... find a mother and ask for help...A mother is a whole lot easier to find than a cop... And a mother will help...

These pieces have filtered down to my parenting even today...Even the shoes...

When I was a young girl and just embarking on the dating game my mother turned to me and said'Don't get me wrong, your father is a good man.... But NEVER.....NEVER....Depend upon a man for your happiness... That comes within you. Be self reliant.'

When pregnant, I was told a mother instinctively knows where it is best to have her baby. hospital vs. home... And that a mother should always go with their instincts.

When discussing labour my best friend who was the first survivor of kidney cancer in New York told me... 'Never have a clock near you when you are in pain... Do not look at a clock... Do not think of time... Just deal with the moment. And you can get through anything.'

And now I want to know from you dear reader what piece of advice you have been given that you follow...

Or that you give...

2006-08-12T17:04:00.000-04:00

I have yet another tale to tell...

I can only now write about it... But two weeks ago, it was too close to the heart...

My husband returned from England in the wee hours of the morning and had to go into work early for the day before our departure... He gingerly kissed our wee daughter as she slept and went in to debrief his collegues on his trip while I started to pack for our two week adventure...

My daughter awakes up with a horrible stomach ache. My daughter has a very high pain threshold when it comes to an illness, so when she says she is in pain... It is always serious. She asks for a freezee as her stomach is so sore. I give her the freezee, she takes a few bites of it then returns it to me... The freezee is not cold enough... How about some ice??? Ice is colder than the freezees she reasons...She gobbled a bowl of them up... and while she was eating her ice she is fine but 20 minutes later, with no ice, she is in exteme pain...
She screams in pain...

It baffles me and I think it could be the appendix, I make the decision for hospital vs doctor...
Long story short...
The doctors at the hopsital were baffled in the first five hours of our stay, as all her vitals normal... but this pain... that could only be cured by ingested ice..
They ruled out the appendix... It was not a whole list of things...
Through all the checks that they were doing on her, I thought that it could be just a weird virus.

Anyway... enter young whippersnapper doctor new on the shift... chin jutted forward, posture of taking on the world instead of taking in anything around him...
He has a point to prove.
He wants to show the world of medicine how worthy he is with his bimbo nurse with the tongue ring that causes her to slur her sentences...
He utters, dear reader...
he utters....
that may daughter may have
cancer...

C A N C E R

He then has his nurse's full attention and me in suspended animation...
My heart stopped...
It just stopped...
I look at my daughter...
I look at him...
I look at the nurse who seems to be squealing with importance of being associated with him reiterating all he has just said she repeats with conviction what the moron has said...'Cancer, doctor?'
I am weak in the knees...
I can not speak...
I can not think...
And then reason...
I need a second opinion of someone less cock sure and someone who in in no need of an audience...
I am surprised that I that i can muster the words,with conviction and I am not shreaking down the passageways...'I want to talk with your superior, Now!'
His chin juts out further, as does his chest...He postures over me with a old style fraternity look. A calm of knowledge that he is a doctor afterall... and he knows of what he speaks...
He then just walks away, leaving me there to breath, to think and to pray.

I then go and call my husband at work...
I take in a gulp of oxygen and call him and I have to utter what this 'doctor' has said to me...
My husband takes it in and is on his way...

My heart is racing...
Nooooooo.....
I keep pacing my breath, I keep looking at my baby...
I keep saying it is a mistake... It is a mistake...
All her vitals are normal...
I do not get how under a urine sample they could make such an assumption...
I see my old crumudgeon of a doctor that I saw initially... The head of emergency... He sees me after I corner him with the news that his fledgling brought to me...
I ask for him to re-examine my daughter with this 'new found knowledge' from the idiot that poses as a doctor...
He examines my daughter...He then says there is a mistake...He apologizes for the idiot. He tells me that he will be dealt with...
He then tells me that things were said that should not have been said...
My daughter, albeit sick... maybe with a bladder infection... but nothing more... He believes that she should be observed at home...
He'll call me by Tuesday with the results of her tests...
My poor husband was caught in traffic and for an hour he thought our wee one was soooo sick...
It took my only 43 minutes to find out differently... 43 minutes of suspended animation...compared with his 67 minutes..

The ole reliable doctor read me, and knew what all moms need to know...he called me that night so I could sleep, he called to say it must be viral as there was NOTHING in her tests...
And luckily by Friday morning it did just that... It passed...
But only after a valley of tears from my husband and mine silently held close to my heart...

I was so excited to get into our rented van and take up our trip far from the confines of the city...
We had an absolutely glorious time...
I did all I was hoping to do...
I read three books, I painted, I wrote, I fell asleep to waves beating on the shore, I cooked, I played a mean game of badminton, I had bon fires under the stars, I wished on falling stars, I ate burnt marshmallows, I felt dew on my feet in the morning, I saw hummingbirds, I saw hawks, I body surfed, I laughed at many joyous moments, I endured a terrific storm with a power failure where we played board games by candlelight, I met some pretty terrific people on the beach, chased our naughty dog around fields of buttercups,I played mini putt, i played bocci ball, I toasted many,many, beautiful, glorious sunsets, I had many bottles of wine, I sang old tunes and new tunes, I danced... And all the while... I kept thinking how wonderful life is... how it was not really all about I ... But us... How all three of us enjoyed so many things together...It truly was a great family vacation...

I returned home on Friday and quickly paid you all a visit... I may not have commented on all but was happy to touch base...

And then Saturday, today, I got the call...
Rita waited for me to return...
She died on Friday afternoon...
I will go to her visitation with Harvey tomorrow and her funeral on Monday...
I wonder about the meaning of things a great deal...
I wonder why or how Rita lasted until my return...
Somethings are not meant to be answered, they are just meant to be...
And with that in my heart, I will go one last time to Rita and to utter how lucky I was to have embraced the moments I have had with her to her family...
and I was truly blessed to have the honour of being her friend until the end...

I do not know what lessons I needed to learn in the past month. But maybe it was just a refresher. A reminder that life is so very precious. Things happen that I can not take control over. There are things that I can not change. Things that are predestined. But hopefully I have the courage of heart to face all with love and compassion.

2006-07-26T18:03:00.000-04:00

Bugger??? No, BogHER...Why not Boghim? BogHER BogHER! Bless you!

I am going on vacation, dear readers, for two whole weeks of bliss... with my husband that poses as a Comedian abroad.
That is, if my husband, can make it home from London tonight... The plane that was supposed to take him home to my loving arms has rerouted itself to Cyprus to pick up some people in greater need than us. When he returns we will not be going to Blogher, nor Bloghim just to a cottage on cliff that overlooks a lake with the most wondrous sunsets in the world.

So, hoping that he does make it home, as I am anxious when he is so far from us, last year he narrowly escaped the bombings in the tubes on July 7th.(all I can say about that is I am so grateful that he is forgetful as he was at the staion at just two minutes before the explosion, and realized he had to go back to the hotel as he forgot a pass, three hours of agonizing waiting to find him safe...)

But as I wait in anticipation for my man, I thought, I would fill up some loose ends from my blogthis past month, to keep you, dear reader, uptodate on the goings of Ms. Pendullum.

Dr. Jekyl has come and gone with a haze of happy well wishers. We had endless dinner parties at our home to welcome our time-traveled friend home. For a week and a half it was party haven here.
He dropped a bit of a bomb on us by letting us know that he is planning one more trip. His last trip before he hangs up the ole bicycle gears...
He is going to cycle from Korea(He will take a boat) to Australia. Australia is his 'training cycling ground' for the great wall of China/the Far East and ending his journey in South Africa. I am not happy with his decision. I know that it is not my decision to make... But still...
Besides the Far East and all the problems in Pakistan and India, besides Iran, besides him doing it ALONE, besides the fact that he is pushing 50, alone on a bike with no one waiting for him at the finish line... Besides all that... there is Africa...
And there are a great deal of wars that are not even mentioned here...
A friend of mine who is working as a prosecutor for the UN on crimes against humanity was nearly murdered there just a few months ago... and that was with an entourage...
Not a lonely westerner on a bike with perceived disposable income...

As you can see I am worried... And the condescending 'he knows what he is doing' is not going to get you far in this gal's blog...
as 'All the power to him' 'Good on him' seems like hollow by yours truly.
My question to him as he left for his plane bound for Korea was 'what are you running away from?' and as he laughed sheepishly, he said 'Good Question, good question!'

Harvey and I went to see Rita. It was horrible. I have experienced 10 friends of mine who have all died from this horrible disease but none were as bad or as helpless as young,dear,sweet,Rita.

When we entered the room, we were greeted by Alice (go figure?). Alice talked to us as if Rita was not there. In the far corner of the dimly lit room was Rita's older sister who is a nurse. She was writing in a journal and when she looked up... I saw what Rita would have looked like had she the opportunity to turn 50. The possibility of what future wrinkles and fuller figure will never be there for my dear, sweet friend who had sunken eyes, a bald head and weighed no more than seventy pounds.

We talked, and Harvey brought pictures of his children, he held Rita's hand and told her of his travels and of the orphanage in which he volunteered, he talked about becoming a vegetarian and he talked about his business failing. He stood the entire visit.

I would like to say it was beautiful. It was. But all the while Alice was lyin gon her back, on Rita's bed. Alice was asking about the possibility of meeting Harvey for a coffee, she was talking about her new found religion, that, being a new GP that knew everything. And to me, Alice knew a lot of nothing.

They, Harvey and Alice, talked about anti-depressants together and the lack of sex drive. I could not believe Alice. I could not believe that she was flirting on a dying woman's bed even though she 'lacked sex drive'. Looked to me that she was not lacking in the flirting department... Just a catty observation...

I knew where Harvey was coming from. I knew that he was scared. I knew through his pacing. I knew that he was hurting and trying to find Rita through the morphine and pain. Trying to find the beautiful vivacious graceful woman that he knew. And that is what I wrote in her memory book that Rita's sister asked me to sign.

I wrote that while Harvey was talking about his life, all the while underneath it all, was a whisper of love, that Rita mattered so much in his life, Rita, that you were loved by him, that you instilled a grace in a room, your laughter could feel a room, your insights into the worlds workings will be missed and that, he, wishes you Godspeed old friend.

When we walked out of the hospice, we were reeling with all kinds of emotions. I know that I was hurting and I was angry because I hurt so much. I just turned to Harvey and asked what the hell Alice all about...

I did not handle it well... But a woman flirting??? And dear reader she was...
Asking if Harvey's wife would be threatened by an ex? Laughing and imagining if they had kids? Talking about how Rita's husband had deserted her and only she, Alice and the sister are there...(Blatant lie, as I talked with the sister and she informed that Rita's husband has been there everyday. He also brings their child every single morning///)
People handle things differently I suppose but taking credit and discrediting people for your own benefit... Big no!no! My way I tell ya...
But as I established I was angry. And Sad... And Helpless... Nothing was going to bring Rita back. And through the haze of it all we wanted it to be a big mistake. But htere was no question it was Rita and when there were those brief moments when she was lucid, we saw our friend trying to make cancer okay for us.

We made it home, quite late, in the evening. We arrived home at around 12 am. And my house was dark. My husband and daughter were asleep. Harvey needed to have a cigarette(which we purchased on our walk home. He has not smoked in fiv years) and a beer. I needed a big honking glass of wine...

And as we settled onto my front porch... My daughter comes barreling down the stairs crying...
Momma, Momma, I could not sleep... You were in big trouble... I could feel it... I could feel your heart being sad... Momma... I could feel it...
Are you ok???(May I add, that she did not see us off... She was in playdate heaven and had no idea about our trip... so she indeed felt us and our grief)

My husband turned on the light and all I could see was his silhouette form from our dark front porch, somehow I was calming seeing his wild haired bedheaded being...

He just shrugged and told my daughter 'See... They're home...'
And with that she retorted 'Not Yet!'
And she insisted;insisted; that we take out an old video...
An old movie that I took out about a month ago...Folklore at this stage of our lives...
It was of a time together, Harvey, my husband and I, when we had countless get togethers, before children, before bankruptcies, before cancer...
A time of frivolous humour...

My 8 year old was right! We laughed and laughed, and somehow it grounded us through our history. Funny how old movies do that.

So, that when we departed for bed, we could toss and turn about Rita in our own way. We would have all our own silent tormented dreams about our dear Rita. But all the while a flicker of that video of happiness and laughter played in our subconscious dreams.

We did not sleep well. But we did have the visions of the past dancing in our heads.

The following day, I was walking with my husband and daughter and we were going to cross our favourite bridge to the lake... when... all these police cars swarmed all around us just as we began to cross the bridge...
And to our horror, there was a young woman getting ready to jump. she was all poised to leave this planet, when I diverted my daughter and my dog's attention to look at the train coming towards us instead of the horror unfolding behind us...
By the time my daughter had her eyes turned around, the lady jumper, was wrestled to the ground by 4 cops. I explained that she was not feeling right and that she needed medication so that she would not be hurt. She was used to the restraints needed for a friend that has drastic seizures so she seemed fine with our explanation.

So, as you can see dear reader... I need a vacation. Where my main concern in life is if I put enough sunscreen on my daughter, if I can really body surf the next wave, catch a frog, or see a heron...

I look forward to toasting the sunsets on the lake. I look forward to thanking the sun for a glorious sunny day... I embrace our dinners on the cliff with a bottle of wine, I salute our bonfires, and we will stare up at the stars in wonder... and at the end of it all, I look forward to dragging my butt up the 100 stairs, to our cottage and putting on a old Danny Kaye movie or whatever else strikes my fancy, and watch a movie with my tired husband, my exuberant daughter and my naughty dog...

Ohh... And by the way... During all of the above I managed to reach 40 years of age. My mother called me on my big day and asked 'How depressed are you?' As she remembered how depressed she was when she turned 40....
And my retort that 'I was sad for Rita and all my friends that could not share the moment with me...' I told my mother, as I am telling you...I am going to throw a big party in the fall at a dance hall for my 40th year... I was going to charge $10 a ticket and all my profits were going to the Cancer Society. I skidded into 40. I have had a lot of friends that have parted, that I was so blessed to have known... and I know that they will be with me, when I take off my red high heels, and dance like there was no tomorrow...

I hope I get wireless service up there. And will hopefully check in with all of you.
I hope you have fun at Blogher. I hope to see lots of pics posted on the internet with wild witty remarks. I hope that I can read all your blogs in the morning light, with a sip of coffee and watching the waves from above. But if not... I will have visions of Catch, Nikki, Rhonda, Kirstin, Kim,Kristi, Mimi, Domestic Chicky,Oh the Joys, Motherhood Uncensored, Painter Beach Girl,Mrs. Moghul, Domesticator, Kevin Charnis, Mothergousemouse, Pandamonium and countless others in my head...

2006-07-19T17:08:00.000-04:00

Cinderella I Am NOT!!!!

I going to relent and post a pic...And I want to state right up front that I am not a glamorous gal. Just a regular gal. I do not light up a room when I walk in. I am just a normal gal who looks like a hundred other gals and 'Bella' is form of greeting that my young Italian Restauranteurs. The pic I have chosen is of me in the morning on my front porch... In FULL 'mornin'glory...

I will post my pic but you will have to endure another story...

I used to know this actor.
He was a Shakespearian actor.
Onr of those amazing voices that you would die for.
His name was John Colicos.

He used to frequent the bar I worked at years ago. We met each other and we had the same quirky sense of humour... He could tell a good yarn. His stories were amazing. I loved all of them. We just got along like old souls. No attraction just a love of a good story and for it to be delivered with that voice...Wow!
What an honour to hear him speak!

I quit working at the bar but continued my friendship with John Colicos. We would meet for the odd drink and just share some stories. We would always be approached by people who were greatly effected/affected by his work...
Apparently he was one of the best King Lear's of our day. He first performed the role in 1966 and it changed people...(Or so the many people who approached whatever retaurant we were in would say!)He of course was in a whole lot more, as I learned through his fans. He was the first Klingon in Star Trek and Baltar in Battlestar Gallactica. He was in the Battle of Navarone, He was in the Postman Always Rings Twice with Jessica Lange and Jaaaaaackk...

He was modest and never talked about being an actor. He just talked about life, renovations and stories about the stars that I would just gobble up over dinner.
He was always gracious with his fans. He signed autographs a plenty. The fans always left feeling like they connected with a star.

And I was always left pondering how we became friends.

One day, I had just worked out at the gym and was on my way home. I had no make up on my face, it was blotchy from a workout. My hair was stringy from just having showered. I was wearing comfy clothes and running shoes. And to top my 'look' off I had my work out bag.

I was walking with purpose when I bump into John wearing jeans and a yellow ascot.(I kid you not)

Pendullum Dahhhhling... Is that you???

John? How are you?

Pendullum where are you headed?

Oh, I think just home.

Pendullum, why don't you join me for a drink?

Oh, what the heck why not?

I am not feeling self conscious as these moments are to be embraced. How often do we bump into an old friend and you both have time for each other?

Well, we hop into a taxi and he gives an address that I am not paying attention to as we are gabbing and getting caught up in each other's lives.

We head out a bit and then the taxi stops in front of a red carpet, search lights and someone opens the door. I look at John.

Oh Dahling, it's just a premiere.
What? A Premiere?
A man grabs my hand, helps to haul my sorry worked out butt out of the taxi.
I look at John as I want to kill him. Everyone is in black taffeta. Everyone is decked out and then there is me. Miss Workout in her skanky, comfy, illfitting outfit... I could have killed him.

It was sink of swim.

John did not have a mean bone in his body. He was the most unpretentious person I have ever known. He never judged people by their appearances and this certainly proved it. I was with a man going to a premiere that was wearing an ascot he was in a denim shirt and casual pants. He never noticed my ratty appearance... He just saw a friend...

He then announces me at the front. He gives my full name and it sounds glorious. I have never heard anyone annunciate my name before. It sounded so regal, so majestic. I pulled my shoulders back and took in my name...
It was a voice that the Queen of England is accustomed to, but not this wee gal.

I became the Empress With New Clothes.
Through the delivery of my name alone I became a starlet for one night. In my stringy, now dry hair, in my wild, comfy clothes I became someone. Someone who had an introduction like no other.
Norman Jewison came over and asked me what I had been in. I had actors approach as John guided me through the crowd of people waiting for the picture to begin.

I loved him for that moment. I love to tell that story to my daughter. It was a life's lesson. It is not what we wear. It is not what we look like. It is all in the delivery. Hold your head up. Walk tall. And have a great Shakespearian actor on your side!

We should all be so lucky.

2006-07-13T10:30:00.000-04:00

Do I Know You???

I have one of these faces that reminds you of someone...Someone's mother, your old best friend, someone. And someone famous, someone that I do not know.

I get it all the time.

There was a time my husband and I were in a Hasty Market and the guy behind the counter was very excited. I thought he was on old friend of my husband's and that he was just happy to see him again. His face had a grin from ear to ear. He was racing around us. We were talking with an old friend of my husband's already. Hasty Market seemed to be the place to be! I thought he was just waiting for a lull in the conversation before he interjected with 'Remember me ole buddy?'
But no!
He was excited to see me. HE was fussing over me.
'Let me take that from you.'
Is there anything else Missss.. Anything else??? Ohhh, this is my lucky day!
Now, just wait here...
I have a camera somewhere... Please lemme take a picture...
And he gives me a sheet of paper and says 'Please for me, my name is Rick.'
I look at him and think he is joking.
He is serious...
My husband just looks at me and I shrug.
'Who does he think you are?'
'I dunno.'

There was a time I was in Sardis in New York, havin a drink with my best friend before a show. I went upstairs to use the loo. By the time I was leaving the loo a crowd had gathered outside the restoom. I was swarmed by people asking for autographs.
I protested and said 'I am just a vistor, I am not who you think I am'(and just who do you think I am???)
and they would get indignant and call me 'A SNOB'as they trust their sheets up paper under my nose'
My friend came up and I had to scream for him and he literally had to break it up as we were late for our show... It looked as though I had a gay handler who was very irrate with my delay...We were going to be late for a show... Which caused the crowd to go into squeals of 'Break a leg honey!'
And I did not ever find out who I was... Maybe I am just plain scared to find out that I am like Florence Henderson or some other character actor...

Well, fast forward to me present day.(Well, at least me in the last few years.)

One of my best friends in the whle entire world asks me out. And I accept. Hubby is working late and will not miss anything with two gals yakking all night. She decides on a very cool restaurant downtown and we agree to rendez vous at around 7 as it will be pretty hard to get a table as we had the film festival and the jazz festival happening in our fair city.

I head on down and my girlfriend is waiting for me at the bar. She comes over to me and says that they are fully booked and there is no way we are getting in. The robust owner is rushing around cursing and then sees me, he makes eye contact and screams 'Bella! Bella, you're here'
I look around, as it can not be me.
'Bella, have you been waiting long?'
Gianncarlo, go clear that table immediately!
Here Bella, Table for how many?
Two?
Here you are Bella.
My girlfriend and I sit down.
Pendullum, do you come here often? asks my gal pal.
Nooooooo
Hmmmm???/
The owner comes by with a really nice bottle of wine, 'On the house Bella!'
This is ridiculous! I do not know what to do...
But it's happenin and we are just laughing...
Anyway we have a wonderful dinner...
Owner comes by and invites us to a party with Al Pacino. I decline as I just do not want to take this any further.
Then he says 'How about a party for David Cassidy at my brother's restaurant???'

Now, I must take you, dear reader on a side adventure....

Flash back to a young girl who loved the Partridge Family(Before she saw the Elvis 68 comeback special) she thought that David Cassidy was love.(Until she saw that Elvis special with him in leather... and then I reeeeally knew what love was... But I digress)
She bought the Teen Beat. She set up the poster and each one of her gal pals would kiss David.
The infactuation died as they always do.And that person is a million miles from my teens.

In my teens I was a babysitter for the big hotels.
And one day, I was called to do a job and who answers the door but ..........David Cassidy!!!!!
My face went scarlet as I was certain that if my Teen Beat pictures could talk they had told a thousand stories to the man standing in front of me. I was so embarrassed. I was red and my face would not stop glowing. I could not look at him. And I was going to be left in charge of his kid????
What kindof justice is that????
Anyway, he left, with his beautiful wife, and I did not damage his child as he was asleep in the room before I got there.

Now, flash forward to me and my gal pal...

Nahhh, thanks anyway.... But I told the owner my David Cassidy story...
As the night progresses, my husband just happens to walk by and he joins us. It is one of those fun nights with laughs galore that you just do not want it to end.
We are tipsy and have a craving for a cognac and cigar...
(What would be the first indication that we are tipsy???)
We decide to leave the restaurant and go to a restaurant that specializes in our poison.
The decision is made for a bar up that is within walking distance up the street. And being loose, we absolutely forget that this is where the David Cassidy party is supposed to be.
We walk in, the owner sees me and screams 'Bella , you made it!!!'
Ohhhhh Noooo...
My husband just looks at me.
My gal pal just says,'Loooong story!Just smile and be part of the entourage.'
The owner of the previous restaurant called his older brother and has relayed my David Cassidy story.
This guy isis only too excited to get me, Bella, (Whoever the hell I am) and David back together....

Nonono.... I protest...

'We don't want to go to the party! We do not want to see David Cassidy. We do not want to hang with the entourage...
All we want is a cigar!' But this guy just doesn't hear what I'm saying...

'Ahh, Bella, David is not here yet...'

'I don't want to see David. I just want a cigar and me and my pals are just going to sit at the bar.Ok?'

'Ok!'

Well, in walks David... He is swarmed by adoring middle aged fans. He is polite, (he at least knows who he is) he signs autographs and is escorted to the private dining room where his party is waiting for him.

And my group of three is just having a good ole time at the bar.

And then I feel a hand on my shoulder.

'Hi, I am David Cassidy and I hear that you babysat my stepson.'

He stayed with us all night. My husband talked with my gal pal and I talked with David.
Polite, kind, funny. He stayed with us the entire time. And he picked up the tab when he left.How often does that happen??? I'm livin' the dream I tell ya!

After he left, another famous Canadian actor came sat beside me and said'You seem like the person to know.'

I felt like David Letterman holding court...

But I do not know who they think I am.

Guess I will never know.

But there is my first crush story. No Elvis Presley in leather... But there you have it...

Might I suggest that you go to

http://othejoys.blogspot.com/

as she was the inspiration for my long story... Her story of Celebrity crush is stellar!!!

Her blog is soo funny...
Could not stop laughing and it brought back to many memories.

2006-07-08T17:37:00.000-04:00

Planets In My Universe Went Bam!!!!

As I mentioned in my earlier blog I lived with all these guys. And Harvey was a guy that lived with us the longest. He was a constant. He had a good disposition. He made bread on the weekends, he liked to dance when he was drunk. He even liked and even laughed at my husband's bad jokes. Harvey always kept his cards close to his chest. You never really knew what was going through his head or his heart.

Harvey founded a company with a partner. He worked very hard at this company. The company did well. He never had the desire for opulent wealth just comfort. Harvey always believed that he was fortunate and he always gave back to the community.He had the opportunity a few years ago to give back and went to India to work, for four months, in an orphanage. He's that type of guy. He worked hard. Was honest. He sold to all my artist friends, at cost. No profit.

Anyway, he expanded his company and long and short of it, one of his employees robbed him blind and now he and his partner are losing everything. He is going for broke. Not bitter. Just the way it is. He feels a fool but can not change the past.

Now, apparently, if you are ever in the position of bankruptcy, it becomes like a mind altering experience. A man that always has played his cards close to his chest will tell you everything about his life. No stone left uncovered so to speak.

So when we had our soiree for Mr. Jekyle a few nights ago, he was with his closest of intimate friends that he had kept at bay for 20 years, and he decides to share his life's story. As the night progressed he opened up. He talked and talked and we were all riveted to his life's story. A story. A journey that certainly had Dr. Jekyle in awe.

All of us were dumbfounded as the conversation was deep, insightful, painful, funny, and mindblowing in its honesty.

Harvey talked about his failures, his triumphs, his recent loss of his company, going bankrupt and he also talked about his lost loves and of his regrets.

Harvey is married now, and he loves his wife, Margaret, incredibly, and adores his children. And because of that he thinks that he is grounded for the obstacles up ahead. It has been the worst year of his life but he kept on saying that he has is health and his family is healthy. It took him a long time to put it in perspective but now it is...

But before he got to the point where he was this married guy, he was a sad bachelor.

He was a bachelor looking for love. And at one time he was dating two girls who were good friends... And he had to make a choice between either Rita(my friend) or Alice, no friend of mine, but a good friend of Rita's.
Rita was a devout Roman Catholic, from a large family. She blushed, was soft spoken, kind, well read, a wee bit uncertain of herself and a virgin. She had a hardy laugh when she heard a good story and always had a kind word. But the virgin thing at the age of 28 can be a bit daunting for a man I suppose. And Mary Tyler Moore character is hard to figure into a 3D life I suppose.

Alice on the otherhand was a powerhouse. She was strong and confident and took life by its horns... Never had a doubt about herself or where she was going. She had a swagger to her walk and a head that was cocked up, ready to look you in the eye whenever she spoke.

Harvey chose Alice. And regretted it. (Alice, the skallywag, broke up with Harvey on his birthday 2 years later.)

As a result of Harvey choosing Alice, I dealt with a very, sad and dejected Rita. She slowly faded from the picture as it was too painful to see Harvey at functions.

I would bump into Rita on and off again. We always had a good laugh. We would run into a coffee shop and get updated in the course of a coffee. The last time I ran into her she was happily married and had a beautiful girl.

Harvey, just before our Dr. Jekyle soiree bumped into Alice. She lives a block away from where he is raising his family and they have never seen each other up until now. They had a quick conversation and that was that.
Harvey came to the party without his wife as they could not afford a sitter.
Harvey relayed his story of bumping into Alice and he wondered aloud what ever happened to Rita.

He told the group that he still to this day regrets his cowardice in dealing with Rita. He misses her friendship. He thought that she was absolutely something extrodinary. Age has taught him all of this. He misses her. He would not trade in his life. It is just a feeling of 'whatif'... and 'I am sorry' that he has always wanted to relay...

Now, I was walking down the street, a week after our soiree, and I bumped into my neighbour that I always share, brief life's lessons about our kids and living in our hood. We always have a good laugh. Today our conversation took a turn ...I find out that this neighbour that I have been having a good ole laugh with for the past ten years is Alice's sister..., Wow...
But the story continues...
If that is not enough to blow my mind...

Alice has just connected back up Rita. It seems as though Alice after bumping into Harveylast week , just happened to bump into Rita's best friend directly afterwards. The best friend of Rita's told Alice some devastating news.

My neighbour has just informed me that Alice is helping to nurse Rita. Rita is dying. She has but days to live. She is in and out of coma and it is just a matter of time. The family knows that she is not coming home. They do not have enough money to pay for the round the clock nurses and friends are picking up the slack.
Alice has just become one of them as of last week.

I write this to all of you while I have the phone beside me waiting for Harvey to return home to get my message.
I am waiting to tell Harvey this horrible news. But somehow I think the universe has gone BAM! that all of this has happened, and that there is some lesson here...
Some hard terrible lesson that Harvey and I are about to embark on and I am so sad.
I am sad for Rita.
I am sad for her 6 year old daughter. I am so sad for her soulmate and heart's companion.
I am sad for Harvey.
Somewhere in the universe, a planet has decided to set all of us in motion colliding towards Rita in her last days...
And now I sign off and wait for Harvey's call...
and wait for my neighbour to call with all the info so that I can be put on the list ... and maybe Harvey will sit with me...

2006-06-28T12:26:00.000-04:00

How Do YOU Spell SUCCESS?????

Is it getting to the bathroom just in time?
Is it by having a clean house for the first time in 5 years?
Is it by writing that perfect memoire and someone wants to publish it?
Or is it by remembering where you put your keys?
Or by getting through another hectic school year?
Is it by the car you drive?
The house that you live in?
The fact that you are married?
Single?
With child?
Childless?
Full of dreams?
Having a dream come true?

When I first moved in with my boyfriend who later became my husband I became a 'Denmother' of sorts. He owned a house and all these guys lived with him. All these guys were in good paying jobs with corporate companies and me...
We at one time had four guys living in our three bedroom abode.
It was certainly an interesting time...
There was one guy Dr. Jekyl, in particular that had a love/hate realtionship with me.
You see the guy had a drinking problem. He could avoid drink for weeks but when he drank...
Yowzaa!
He was self destructive. And living in a house full of guys they thought the behaviour was odd... but none of them were going to get involved...
Well, one morning, I awoke early and found blood smeared across the hallway. At the entranceway to our house a wee pool of blood.
My boyfriend was showering when I made the grim discovery of blood.There was a mad scramble around the house due to the fact we were all embarking on a roadtrip/ wedding.
Mr. Jekyl meekly comes down the stairs. He has been beaten up. He has blood caked in his hair, he has a wound on his face from a guy who punched him with a big honking ring.
Now, I could bore you with all the details of our love/hate thing and how our fight really began there. I could point out that I just wouldn't let it go as I cleaned and dressed his wound.
I could point out that I called him a liar.
I called him a lot of things.
I could point out that I was the only one who got involved...
I got my hands dirty.
Everyone else just kinda said to lighten up and would retort that these things kinda happen...
Did not know what planet they were from.
From that day on, for four months we fought. He quit drinking to prove me wrong.
We fought continually. He hated me.
And I can not remember the litany of crap I put up with at the time but I put up with a lot.
All because I spoke up about his aloholism. It was the elephant in our house and for some unknown reason I cared.
He moved away. And I thought'Good Riddance'
And after a month or two he started calling..ME... Not any of the guys...Not his buddies... ME...
He would phone at ungodly hours(drunk) but somehow I knew I had to listen...
I would love to say there was an epiphany moment but there was none...
There was just me listening to him...
He then, decided to go on an adventure...He couldn't like life in our country or maybe he just couldn't find himself through the confines of our society, I have no idea.He has never said why, he does, what he does.
The man got on his bike and cycled from England to India.
No prep work. He just did it...
And from that day he has been travelling.
He only nurses one beer a month. Does not drink at all.
His last adventure was from Terra Del Fuego up to Alaska and across Canada all on bike.
He comes to visit on occasion.
And the last time he came he apologized for all he put me through.
He gave no excuses just an apology. And I gave him forgiveness.
He is now residing in Korea teaching English.
He is coming to stay with us in a few days.
And now when I think of him.
I think of Success...

2006-06-21T16:58:00.000-04:00

Just click your heels together three times...

Are You Really What You Wear?

I suppose we all have a costume that we wear in one way or another... We all play a role. In a neat and tidy world. Dorothy had her role woth Toto in a beautiful blue ginham dress, Charlie Chaplan was approachable in the oversized pants and bowler hat. June Cleaver in the fities style dress and high heeled shoes.

We all have a costume or uniform that states what 'we do'...

The butcher wears his white robes laced with pieces of meat stuck on the front, the crossing guard with the giant orange vest and stop sign, the policeman that has to taken to wearing baseball cap so that he would be more approachable, and a doctor who wear the big white lab coats for goodness knows what reason... probably the same as the butchers.. .

My costume of life is that of jeans, running shoes, Doc Martans, t-shirt, sweater, hair tied back, no make up and sunglasses. I have my daughter on my right side singing at the top of her lungs and I have my black, small, approachable black dog who is wearing all his dog tags that say that he is owned and is not the carrier of rabies. Basically in my mind's eye I am like a Mrs. Cleaver minus the green apron and the perky disposition.

My daughter seems to replicate my uniform, except that she likes her hair down, and she will wear lipgloss on occasion. Part of her ensemble is a knapsack that is larger than her upper torso which gives her the appearance of a purple hunchback going to school.

My husband's uniform is that of black jeans, or blue jeans, an undershirt and dress shirt, he carries a black nylon swiss army briefcase that holds his lunch and reading materials.
In his dress shirt pocket he carries his Nano that have white, dangling, earplugs and he wears dark Ray Ban sunglasses. The ensemble makes him look like a secret service agent...

My daughter purchased a pair of shoes for me this past Christmas... They were patent leather, three inches high, and scarlet red... She was so happy giving them to me... I just looked at them in disbelief.. I looked at the box, looked at the shoes, looked at my daughter who's face was full of anticipation and looked beseachingly over at my husband who just said...'She saw them, and HAD to get them for you!'

My daughter then shrieked...'You can wear them, when you come to pick me up from school!'

Oh yeah. What costume are we talking here... Albeit I have the black dog...

Well, the shoes stayed in their box. And my daughter would continually ask 'when are you going to wear my present???'

The day arrived when I was going to attend a big party at a new, fancy, hip, club/hotel. I was to meet my husband at the club and from there we were going to rendez-vous with the larger group of people... A grown up party!

I decided that my Christmas shoes would work for this occasion.

So I dusted them off... Searched the closet for an costume that would compliment the shoes.
I chose... a black Ellen Tracy tuxedo blouse, a red, Georgio Armani skirt, fishnet stockings and my new red shoes.
I seem to put myself into a whole new aura with just a change of clothing. A groovy girl. A gal who is hot. A gal who is going to meet her man. I was a funky, hip, young, chick! The outfit screamed no responsibilty...Look out!

My daughter squealed with delight when she saw that her Christmas shoes were on my feet and I was taking flight.

With all the encouragement from my cheerleader daughter I left with my house with my head held high and my high heel shoes clicking with great purpose on the sidewalk. I was out of my Doc Martans, I was out of my jeans, I was feeling cool and I was heading to the new and cool club/hotel in a grown up costume without the props of dog or daughter.

My husband is always late. Always. There is always an excuse but he would be late for just about anything... He always saunters in with a smile, unplugs himself from the sanctum of the nano and joins in with an apologetic smile.

This was the grand opening of the hotel and I should have known this would not be any different than any other time meeting him.

He was late. Very late.

I was just waiting in the lobby, pacing in my red high heel shoes, with fishnet stockings aimlessly looking around. I had no idea where I was to go so I was left in the lobby to pace. I was just pacing in my mini shirt. I was just pacing in my fishnet stockings. I was just pacing in my three inch high red shoes. I was looking at the ceiling, watching the people enter on the red carpet and then it happens....

'Excuse me Maaaaaam... But... we have a.... no loitering policy at the hotel.'

No Loitering???
No Loitering???

I look at this young whippersnapper in his hot black pants, his crisp black shirt, surfer blonde hair, his gold bracelet, his gold earing and his Maui tattoo ...

Ohhhh Myyyyy Gaaaawwwddddd....

The Dolce&Gabbana consierge/the bouncer/the young/goodlooking/suave/hipster/thought I, ME,
Maam,
Mrs. Doc Martan,
Mrs. Sensible,
Mrs.
MOMMA,
Mrs June Cleaver with attitude,
was a HOOKER!!!!!!!!!!!

Amazing, what I appear to others, when I am without my props!

Maybe next year, for Christmas, I may get the green apron! or the blue, gingham, dress....

2006-06-15T12:18:00.000-04:00

Just What Is With a 'Bad Boy'?

If there was not a market for the Badboy, would the Badboy not exist?

As a young girl I was on occasion, attracted to what may be construed as the BadBoy. The Badboy could be anything that would seem forbidden, from the look, the perpetual sneer, ripped jeans, messy hair, to the brooding artist who was terribly misunderstood. The Badboy who only wore black. The Badboy that wore dreadnoughts, the Badboy that dyed his hair blue, the Badboy that shaved his head.The Badboy with the Harley. The Badboy with the tattoo. The Badboy musician. The Badboy, ahhhh...

I do not think there was a real dress code per say it was more... an aura. I did not necessarily go out with all these type of guys but I was definitely attracted to them.

My husband is afraid of the future.

He is afraid that one of these boys may end up on our doorstep and want to court our/HIS daughter. He feels as though, the Badboy attraction, could be inherited through my genes. My husband is attempting to 'train' my daughter into what she may want in a boyfriend, ions from now. He is thinking along the lines of nurture versus nature.

The training began by watching the Pirates of the Caribbean. The movie with Orlando Bloom, as the dutiful, Will Turner and Johnny Depp, as sexy, Captain Jack Sparrow. I listened as my husband gave a commentary on how wonderful Will Turner is as a person. He works hard, he has a craft. Will Turner is patient, kind and only has one love and that is that of Elizabeth.
My husband, would then go on about Captain Jack Sparrow and how he was a philanderer, how he didn't even bath, his teeth were made of gold and he seems to drink way toooo much.

He thinks the point is driven home to our eight year old.

After the movie we head up to bedtime routine.

I read my daughter her stories and then we turn out the light.

'Momma, it's about that pirate movie. '

'Yes, love.'

'You know the pirate that Daddy liked? '

'Yes. '

'Well, he was good. He was nice, I mean. '

'Yes, honey. '

'Well, you know that other pirate? '

'Yeeesss?'

'You know the one with the hair, the eyes, the teeth, and the crooked smile? '

'Yes .'

'Momma, I like him... I mean I liked him ALOT, ALOT!!!! '

Serves my husband right... Keith Richards is just a few years away!

Nurture versus nature!!!! HA!

There'll always be a market for the Badboys...at least at our house...

2006-06-12T09:43:00.000-04:00

Kismet Fate? Do You Believe in it?

I wrestle with this question or maybe I have come to terms with it...

While on my honeymoon in Greece, I met a soulmate of mine. You may find this odd as I was on my honeymoon with my husband and there HE was... Another piece of my destiny...
My husband and I were on an island that worshipped the sun. Mykonos had not seen so much rain. I felt as though my husband and I brought on the great floods. Or at least fate did.

It all seemed to begin when my husband found a pub that was on higher ground. We were finally away from the wrath of Poseidon.The bar was owned by a wonderful, eccentric, Scot who had the delightful sense to offer a litre of retsina to entice all kinds of patrons to his BBQ in the rain.

It became a giant cocktail party.Everyone was in the mood to socialize, partly due to the wine and partly due to the inclement weather. We were on an island that worshipped Helios and the nightlife and since there was no sun god for the past week, the natives were only too willing to patronize Dionysus.

I had just introduced my husband to a couple sitting next to me... and luck would have it they lived in the SAME city as us. My husband and the couple were getting along famously and I was enjoying the ambiance when HE bound into my life wearing a flightsuit. The most handsome man in the joint. The one everyone seemed to want to know...

HE strode right over to me in the crowded bar and said that HE needed to meet me.

I cannot tell you what we talked about. I cannot tell you how long we chatted. But it marked the course of our lives.

After corresponding for a year, he invited me first back to Greece which I declined and then he invited me to his hometown New York. I knew nothing about him really. All I knew was a feeling. A strange old soul feeling. I knew him and nothing about him. My husband thought of me as crazy for wanting to embark on a journey to a foreign country to visit a man I barely knew on an old soul notion... He tried to reason with me'What did I really know of this man. Where did HE live? Would I have to sleep on the kitchen floor?' and my favourite 'I would be sold to the white slave trade and I had only myself and my old soul feeling to blame'

I just knew I had to go and ignored the detour signs along the way. I was not dissuaded when my boss called me in for a last minute meeting, or when my luggage desinigrated on the way to the airport and had to be bound together with electrical tape, or when my flight was rerouted to Pittsburgh and I was three hours delayed.

And then there was the cab ride. When I gave my cabbie, the address he informed me that I must be very rich since I was certainly not famous... And the location as to where we were going... I had to be one or both...
I told him that I was not/am not and that I know how much it is to my friend's place...
The cab driver then informed me that the friend I was visiting was not gay, but leading me to his place under uncertain pretences, or that my husband was not going to the Formula One race as he did every year, my husband was actually having an affair!!!!!and that not one of these guys could love me like my Columbian Cab driver could love me..

By the time I reached his door and he flung his arms around me...I had so many stories to tell him that it could not help but blossom into a never ending friendship...

We packed a great deal of history into a four day weekend . A history that caused us to get into eachother's bones.

I have endless moments with HIM to follow and to fill my life.

He filled with anticipation when my husband and I told him we were expecting. He made certain that we would have one last vacation as a couple before the baby. He indulged us. And I often wonder what we had to give in return... Middle class morality with all its fixins?

When the baby arrived he made certain he came when we were all settled in so that he could pamper us as a family. He filled our family with endless vacations with him. We all got along famously and how often does that happen???
When he would come to our sleepy city, I would be filled with angst as to what I was going to show him...
and his only retort would be the festival of you and your family.

We had years of vacations together. And my daughter spent 26 per cent of her life in New York visiting him. He spent countless adventures up here. He even flew up for my daughter's first day of junior kindergarten .

And then he got sick. We were with him every step of the way. We saw bravery like no other. We loved him and there was no way he was going through this alone.

He had a 'good' year of recovery.

And then he died.

The autopsy came back recently that told us that he would have been blind and he would have had to have his legs amputated had he survived the last go around... A fate he would never had wanted...

When the 'anniversary' of our meeting, nine years later, the stuff from HIS estate showed up at our house...
It was raining.
There was an inch of water on the ground,
The delivery GAL was a...... Well, she was a, a Dwarf.
A determined dwarf,who insisted on no help delivery my goods...
I watched her dumbfoundedly from my porch... All the stuff was larger than her...
A dwarf, in the rain, on the anniversary of our meeting?

Fate interceded? Fate brought him to me and fate took him away... and brought him back again...

2006-06-07T10:04:00.000-04:00

Are You the Age You Are? Or????Are YOU, just Faking IT?

My Dad has this theory that you are born the age you are.

Some people were just born old...
Some are born young etc.

I had this actor friend that recently passed away. It made the news. And while I marveled at his obituary on the radio I was struck by his age. I never knew how old he was... I never defined him by an age. And there it was. His age forever more on the radio and I couldn't believe it.
He had a presence of spirit. He had a mischievous twinkle to his eye. He could laugh like no tomorrow. He could tell a good story AND listen to one. He took chances and learned new things. He loved life and life loved him back. A light gone. But while he was here for 72 short years that light burned brightly.

I have a grandmother. She was old before I met her. She lived in the past. She complained about her joints . She complained about the pain of growing old. The misery of it all. 'Youth is wasted on the youth' she would often say. This quote when I do the math... Was said when she was 48 years of age. She is now 83 and she is dying. But was she dead before I met her?

I wonder about this. I still see myself as a gal that loves to skip rope. I can still see myself riding my absolutely favourite banana bike with the wind blowing through my hair. I still love to sing songs. I still feel that tingling insecure girl feeling when walking into a new situation. I still bite my lower lip if I am feeling insecure. I still can cry.And I sometimes I just need a hug to make it better. And I can still laugh. I still will call my mom in times of trouble. I still turn up the stereo to new levels of high when my 'favourite song' causing me to squeal with delight, sing and dance all at the same time....And sometimes I still need to gab on the telephone for hours with a grrrrrfriend... I still see myself as a girl of twelve.

And then, I pass a shop window and I see this woman? When did I grow up? I don't remember doing that? I have a husband, a kid, a dog, a house and debt??? Am I playing make believe? Or have I grown up?
Are we defined by our age? Or does our age define us?

Just asking.

2006-06-01T12:31:00.000-04:00

I wake up...

Sluggishly look at the clock with one eye...I purposely only open my right eye, as my dog is on my left side and if he sees this subtle movement of an eye opening, it wakes him... And his enthusiasm for my being awake is NOT reciprocated initially.
And once he is awake... The day begins...
And sometimes a gal just needs a minute of consciousness without another being conscious of her existence.
My dog does rise. I do not know how he has the canny perception that I am awake. Maybe the sound of the eye crust breaking free as I opened my one eye, or perhaps smells the scent of the liquid of my eye? Have no idea but he always is wakes. I lie as still as possible just for a minute and he knows. A sixth sense he has... And it drives my crazy...
He just sits. He stares at me at eye level with his tail wagging. He whimpers. He wags his tail. He is only concentrating on me. and when he gets the go ahead he throws himself onto the bed . All this is just too much for my husband and me. I relent and get up.

I stumble over a heap of clothes that I have been meaning to launder for what seems like weeks. I give myself heck about being so tardy.
I then venture down the stairs with my posse of one.

He is let out immediately.
I listen to the news while getting my daughter's breakfast and listen for the weather.

Weather is a pretty important thing if you are a Canadian... Weather gives us purpose. It can be an opener in any crowd. A Canadian is not uncomfortable about opening a cocktail conversation about the weather...

Whoa, what weather we having,eh?
Cold enough for you, eh?
The chill can cut you to the bone.
God, feel that humidity?
I can not breathe for the humidity.'
And so it goes.

It affects our moods, or general disposition towards life. So when hear 22 degrees Celcius with ten per cent chance of showers is announced by the weatherman in the morning one feels relieved. It gives you a warm tingle feeling. You can carry on with confidence. You can walk with a stride. You do not have to fight against the weather. It is one with you. The force is with you.

The sun is shining, it is a beautiful day good morning, good morning, good morning, yah!

I wake the troupes, my husband and daughter with the weather news and off I go...
It is going to be a good day.

I motivate my kid to wake up, with the weather.....Oddly enough, she is not transfixed with the weather as this Canadian.
Waking a child to go to school is like trying to put a sock on a cat's head... It is possible but with a lot of elbow grease.

She finally gets it together... Or should I rephrase that to..."We" get it together.

I do the quick run outside to check weather report... That's another thing, we do not have much faith in the weatherman.

But today he is right!
Blue skies...

Kiss my husband good bye, wish him a good day... And we are off to conquer the trails as we know them.

Daughter has found her homework, back pack is on, dog waiting patiently with his leash and I found my keys! One last look at the clock.... AHHHHH... We are running late, but not too late.

We will make it in time if we hustle! We will not need to get the dreaded late slip...

Somehow the late slip is... Well, it is just a reflection of parenting. Let's face it. A kid is not going get to school on their own. They are not going to rise...It is either the mother or father's 'job' to get them there on time. So if you screw up and have to go to the office continually for your 'kid's tardiness... It's just... Well... Just bad...
When I have gone into the school office with my daughter the secretary always casts a glance my way, she puts her glasses on the edge of her knows and says... 'Oh, late again honey? What's the excuse this time?'
Not that many lates but enough to make you want to avoid the condescending look.
I digress, but you can see the motivation.

We are walking along, when a few drops of rain start to fall. Still a clear sky. But the rain starts. We could go back... But there is that late slip hovering its nasty head over us. So we plod on. A few more blocks, that's all it is...
The clouds roll in. From NOWHERE!!!!
The rain comes down in buckets, we are four blocks from school. The point of no return!
We can not turn back and we are just drowning, as we are walking. The running shoes that my daughter has on are squeaking and squishing as she walks. Her hair is matted down on her face.
The mascara that I neglected to wash off my face from the night before is trickling down my face.
Parenting awards will not be handed my way.
But, by golly, we are not going to be late!
And just when I thought it couldn't get worse.
I feel my loose shirt clinging to my body I remember that I neglected to put on a bra today just as we pass a road crew, a crew full of heavily 'testosteronized' men...
10 per cent showers! My ass!