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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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????