On the Way Home ...

We'd had a fantastic day, Frankie and I. The weather was perfect, the experience, unforgettable. We were chatting in the car as we followed the meandering highway eastward toward Toronto. Frankie was telling me about her Aunt Zia.

Zia was Frankie's favourite aunt. Zia worked hard to make a memorable childhood for her niece. She baked her birthday cakes with candles and always made her feel special. She never forgot her birthday. Frankie loved her aunt. She also loved butterflies. Not so very long ago, Zia died. Cancer had claimed another gentle soul. And Frankie still mourns her passing.

My friend related this story to me:

"I don't look forward to my birthday anymore. It's just not the same without my aunt. Instead of feeling happy on my special day, I remember her kindness and her gentleness and I feel sad. On my birthday this year, Tom and I were downtown attending a lecture. When we paused for lunch, my husband and I walked to a little park nearby and found a bench where we sat to have a sandwich. We hadn't been there long, when my thoughts again turned to Aunt Zia. I wished so much that I could see her again. Just for a minute or two. I wished that I'd told her how much I loved her and how I appreciated all she did for me."

"Suddenly, a beautiful butterfly appeared and sat on the bench beside us. It did not seem nervous at all! It simply sat and displayed its brilliant colours. It stayed with us until it was time to return to the lecture hall. I am absolutely convinced that butterfly was Zia. Or perhaps was sent by Zia to let me know she hadn't forgotten my birthday."

I listened to my friend's story and I was moved again to tears. She was nearly overcome with emotion as she recalled the experience. She was seized by great wracking sobs. I wanted to hold her, Ms J, but I was driving. I let her feel her feelings.

"It was the most amazing thing I've ever seen, Dale," Frankie sobbed. "It was like a ..."

She stopped talking for a second then and I was unsure whether she was searching for the right word or if she'd stopped to regain her composure.

A white car appeared suddenly in front of us. I stared at the licence plate and I could scarcely believe what I saw.

"Frankie," I said gently. "Look at the licence on that car."

It read "MIRACLE"

It took a few miles for us to calm down. It was .... a miracle, Ms J.

Oh God! I LOVE MY LIFE!!!!

A Spiritual Kind of Day

Hello Ms J. I meant to tell you about my experience at Nina's retreat last Saturday, but I got sidetracked and distracted by the busyness of living. Very sidetracked. Very distracted. Very busy. I'll take a few deep, cleansing breaths now, and relate to you the day's events.

Nina Darrell used to be the minister at our church here in Mimico. She was well-liked by all. Nina told us one day, two years ago that she planned to leave the clergy to open a spiritual retreat with her husband, Jim. We were sorry to lose her as a minister, but happy she was following her dream.

Nina has worked first as a nurse, then an ordained United Church minister. She's also a qualified Reiki practitioner. Healing is her greatest spiritual gift. She recently sent me a brochure listing the various programmes offered at Riverside Glen Retreat and Healing Centre.

This one looked interesting:

EXPLORING ART IN DEPTH

Discover your inner artist. Designed to open you up to the creative process. Pat McPhail, artist, will lead you through exercises to interact with chosen pieces of art and stimulate you to respond with your own artwork, poetry or story. Saturday, September 25. 1:00 - 4:00 pm.

I asked my friend Frances if she'd like to go. She said yes, so off we went.

The retreat is set on seven gorgeous acres on a hilltop overlooking the Grand River near the town of Brantford. It's about 45 minutes west of Toronto. The place has a very serene feel about it. Peaceful. Conscious. Safe. Nina and Jim are lovely hosts. Warm. Welcoming. And very sincere.

There were about a dozen of us taking the workshop and both Nina and Jim participated with us. They had never done this sort of thing before. Pat McPhail is a beautiful lady who attends my church. It was she who facilitated the exercise. Jim and I were the only men.

In a large room, we found a number of paintings. Some were readily identifiable objects. Others were quite abstract. We were instructed to select a painting that we liked and sit down and stare at it. Closely. Carefully. Consciously. We noticed each tiny detail and subtle hue and shade. We examined shapes and textures. Lines. Straight and curved. Vertical and horizontal. Then Pat asked us to chose a shape from the picture and commit it to memory.

We sat then at long tables and drew our own pictures starting with the shape we'd recalled from the first picture. I was amazed at the number of permutations in my drawing as I changed my mind about what it was many times before I decided it was complete. In the end, it depicted me, imprisoned halfway between an inky, black darkness below, and a bright, yellow omniscience above. And I had no idea what I was drawing until I had completed it. Very enlightening, Ms J!

The next step was the same only this time, we began by examining the picture we had just done. This time, the outcome was not so cheery for me.

I couldn't seem to focus on the task at hand. Try as I might, my thoughts kept turning to my poor, old geriatric father and to my lost and confused young son. One is 82, the other 18. They're both struggling with Life, in their own way. My artwork depicted an angry, disappointed father and a sad and tearful little boy. I was both the boy and the father.

When I tried to explain my drawing, I became extremely emotional. I did my best to be strong, but I'm afraid my tears were quite evident. Frankie told me Nina was moved by my story. So were some of the others. One lady approached me afterwards and put her hand on my shoulder.

"Thank you for being so courageous," she said.

I must tell you, Ms Journal, I didn't feel very brave. I actually felt terribly frightened when I talked about Dan and about my dad. I suppose that's another of Life's paradoxes. Showing fear requires courage.

Funny though. I felt I had no choice in the matter. Something, or someone was guiding me through that process. Frankie and I are certain that the same something, or someone was following our conversation in the car on the way home.

Let me post what I've written so far. I'm going to get something to eat downstairs and then I'll finish the story.

So ......??

Carol arrived chez moi around 6:00 last night. I raced home from rehearsal to shower and shave, and to finish last-minute preparations. I put a table cloth on the dining room table and after fussing over a centre piece, I decided on a bowl of fruit. I lit a few candles for ambience.

I was in the kitchen when she called through the screen door.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

"I'm here, Carol," I called. "Please come in."

I walked to the front door as she entered.

"Welcome!" I smiled.

"Thank you," she said and returned my smile. "It's such a lovely evening, I decided to walk over."

She lives nearby, Ms J. Obviously.

She wore capri style pants, sandals and a stylish, form-fitting top with a V neck and short sleeves. She'd applied a bit of mascara as well. She looked pretty good, actually. She handed me a bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc.

"This should really be chilled."

"OK," I said. "I'll put it in the fridge here beside the Chardonnay."

I had thought of everything, Ms J.

She peered into the fridge and saw the home-made hamburg patties on a plate covered with Saran wrap. She noticed the salad, too.

"Oh, salad and hamburgers!" she remarked. "It looks delicious!"

"Are you hungry?" I asked hopefully, for I was nearly famished. I'd had nothing to eat since breakfast.

Carol shook her head. "Not really, no. Let's sit and chat for a while, shall we?"

I suddenly realized I'd been looking at her chest and I raised my eyes quickly to her face. I knew she'd caught me looking and I felt a bit embarrassed. But her mouth and eyes were smiling and I relaxed again, and lead her into the dining room where we sat and talked about ... everything. The lady likes wine, Ms J. That's got to be a good thing.

She's an interesting lady, Ms Journal. She was married once. In England. She was young. "Veddy young." She has two (three?) grown children. A daughter lives in California.

Carol is writing a book. Fiction. She told me the synopsis and it sounds really interesting. She also hopes to write a non-fiction work about the ways in which technology has affected the Lives of women. She hopes to interview her mother, who still lives in England, and get her insight into old ways versus new methods. Cooking. Housekeeping. Sewing, etc.

"I think we should eat pretty soon," I declared when the loud rumblings of my empty stomach began to interfere with conversation.

I served the salad and we ate it while the burgers cooked on the grill.

"More wine?"

"Yes, please. Thank you."

The wine and conversation were both flowing delightfully when I noticed the smoke billowing from the barbecue. I remained calm, on the outside.

"I'd better check the meat. It must be nearly done by now."

So I checked it. It was indeed 'done.' The four perfectly formed beef patties now resembled hockey pucks. But God bless those tactful Brits!

"Oh, they're perfect," Carol said as she looked on from the patio door. "I prefer them well done, actually."

"They're perfect alright," I thought. "Perfectly ruined."

But what the hell ... That's all there was for dinner. So we put the pucks in the buns, loaded them with onion and tomatoes, and ate the damned things anyway.

After supper, we retired to the living room. Carol sat on the couch and I sat beside her. I observed that as I gradually slid closer to her, Carol talked more but said less. When I was quite close beside her, she was babbling away like a nervous school girl. So I kissed her.

"There," I thought. "That shut her up, didn't it?"

And it got really quiet in this house for a little while. Just a bit of gentle smacking. And some breathing. Hers. And mine. I was beginning to get some brilliant ideas about taking this show upstairs, when the fridge rattled loudly as it always does before shutting off.

Suddenly, Carol noticed the time.

"My goodness! Is it 10:00 already? I really should get going. I know you have to get up early in the morning."

She stood and fetched her 'hand bag' and headed toward the door. 'Hand bag.' That must be an English term. It looked like a purse to me.

We stood face to face at the door and I stole another kiss. Or two.

"OK, Carol. I'll see you again soon."

Hear that, Ms J? I didn't say "I'll call you." I did NOT say that.

I have two tickets to a play in a fortnight. I've asked Carol to go with me and she's accepted. She's offered to cook supper for me at her place before the show.

So that's it, Ms Journal. That was my dinner with Carol. She told me she likes me. I'm not sure how I feel about her yet, though. I'll give it more time. Who knows where this might lead me?

I tidied up a bit in the kitchen and then climbed the stairs to bed. I must say, Ms J. I was really tired and it felt good to slide in between nice, clean sheets.

Even if I was alone.

Tomorrow, I'll tell you about Saturday. I had the most amazing day!!

Good night, Ms J.

Friday. Finally.

Friday. Finally. It’s seemed like a long week. I booked rest after work last night and took this morning off. Gosh it felt good to sleep late! I didn’t even open my eyes until 8:30. Fantastic! I got to lounge around here this morning with nowhere to go and no one to see. I loved it!

I was so tired at rehearsal last night. My eyes felt as though they were full of sand. I had fun though, as usual. We’ve finished blocking all of Act 1. Blocking describes the process of planning the physical movement of actors on stage. It's dreadfully tedious, Ms J. But quite necessary.

"We're ACTORS!" we cry. "We want to act!"

My next door neighbour plays the part of Vicki, a teenaged girl. Margaret has very little, if any experience on stage, but I think she'll be fabulous. I'm so glad I thought to ask if she'd be interested in auditioning.

Afterwards, Denis (the director) had us run the entire act. But it was getting late and he stopped us less than halfway through it. I must say, I was a little sorry to stop. I was enjoying myself. It is finally looking better. We make lots of mistakes still, of course. But it’s looking better.

Denis told us he’s found a “Gavin.” Gavin is a character in the play. He's the sixteen year old son of our main character, John Smith. Gavin is a teenaged boy who has some hilarious interaction with Stanley (my character). Up til now, we've had Jenn's brother, Larry reading the part of Gavin. Larry will be our stage manager when the play gets up on its feet. Larry does a pretty good job, actually. It's a pity that he's too old to play a teenager. I was enjoying acting with him on stage.

Denis told us who it was he'd found to play Gavin. And I felt disappointed.

It’s Robin. Robin Cowan. I worked with Robin in “Over The River And Through The Woods” a couple of years ago. He’s not a very convincing actor, Ms J. And I don’t think his English dialect will be very convincing either. Plus, he’s about twenty-five years old!!

Oh well. I guess I’ll just wait and see …

I want this play to be the best it can possibly be. I will give my best effort toward that end. So too will Jenn. And Larry. We all will.

Robin too, I hope.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've invited Carol for dinner on Sunday. Remember her, Ms J? The English lady I met in July at the writers' workshop? She's helped me a bit with my accent.

I'm off to a spiritual retreat on Saturday afternoon. And I've been asked to do a reading in church on Sunday morning. Would you care to join me for dinner after rehearsal on Sunday afternoon? I'm planning to barbecue some hamburgers, or maybe chicken. And maybe, just maybe you could help Stanley a bit with his lines? Hmmmm??

She accepted my invitation.

A Sunday afternoon bar-be-que sounds like fun - what time will the sizzling begin?

I look forward to hearing more about the spiritual retreat...

Take care,
~Carol

I've got to get this place cleaned up. And change the sheets on the bed ...

Good night, Ms J.

The Same Bloody Lesson. Repeated.

Today’s big news?

I finally filed my tax return!!

I got the papers together and went to visit Joe Salib, the accountant who has prepared my tax return for the past two years. His office is here in Mimico at Royal York Rd. and Evans Ave. I rode my bike over there this afternoon. I was in his office for an hour and a half while he made numerous phone calls on my behalf to obtain information regarding the sale of my CN shares in 2003. I sold most of my shares in CN Rail to get a downpayment to purchase my house.

Remember, Ms J?

I don’t. Not very well, anyway. How many shares did I sell? At what price? And most importantly for tax purposes, at what profit? It’s called capital gains tax, and it’s payable on any income derived from the sale of stocks and shares. It’s just another method used by the government to keep the middle class securely in the middle. The wealthy upper class enjoy tax breaks and shelters which allow them to pay very little tax on the millions they earn. Don’t get me started …

Anyway, after a fruitless search for missing documents by telephone and internet, Joe discovered what he needed among the pile of papers I had brought him. Halleluiah! With the help of a computer programme, in fifteen minutes he had completed my taxes.

And here’s the best part:

The reason I had waited so long to file my tax return this year, (April 30th is the deadline) was that I had assumed I’d owe money – a lot of money, to the government. The Ministry of Wealth and Hellfare. Or whatever it’s called. I was scared, Ms J. That’s the Truth. I was frightened of having to pay a couple of thousand dollars in taxes on the profit I made from the sale of my shares. So I didn’t file a return. And as I sat and dithered, interest was accruing on the money I owed. That knowledge made me even less inclined to submit a return to Ottawa. I don’t have a couple of thousand dollars at my disposal, Ms. J. I was afraid of being poor (er). I was afraid of not having enough. It weighed heavy on my heart.

Joe turned the computer monitor so I could see what he’d done.

“You’re getting a refund of $1705., Dale.”

I know, Jennefer. “Let go and let God.”

I wonder if I’ll EVER learn that lesson?

Peaceful Solitude

Today, it's peaceful solitude for which I'm grateful.

I visited my sister yesterday. Jill lives about seven minutes from Mimico in an area known as The Queensway. She and her husband Dave bought the house we all grew up in. She's had the same address and phone number since she was born.

Jill has two young children. Erin is four and Jason is only two. Together, they make a lot of noise. I don't think they're noisier than most children that age. They're pretty good kids, actually. Erin is too defiant to suit me and Jason is rather fond of screeching loudly to convey his various emotions. But in general, they're fairly normal kids.

But ...

(You knew there was a 'but' coming, didn't you Ms J?)

As I get older, I'm finding it increasingly difficult to tolerate the relentless and unholy din that is a regular part of everyday Life with young children.

I've lived alone for a while now, Ms Journal. Four years. I am not a noisy man. I don't play loud music. I don't turn up the volume on the television more than is necessary. (I rarely watch television.) I don't clomp about the house in hard-soled shoes or bang the dishes when I put them away. I don't even speak loudly, usually.

But oh my word! The noise at Jill's house yesterday afternoon was nearly unbearable. It wasn't bad at first. The kids played fairly quietly (or at least in another room) while my sister and I visited. After lunch, things really began to spool up, like a jet engine upon start-up. The decibel level started out low, and slowly built to an ear-piecing whine.

I bore it as long as I could. And then I announced my departure. Jill looked a bit mystified. I don't think she even hears the row, or the clamorous caterwauling. She doesn't often move to end it. Perhaps her hearing has been impaired through constant exposure.

Yes, Ms J. I like my quietude.

Take a deep cleansing breath now, and softly exhale. Shhhhhhhhh ... Lovely.

Healthy Kids

I'm thinking today about my kids, Dan and Meagan. And I'm thinking how grateful I am that they're healthy.

The man I worked with this morning (the other engineer, John) has a son with ADHD. Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder. He's 13. The boy must take pills every day, just to function normally. Well he still can't function 'normally', but at least his behaviour is more bearable for teachers and parents. He doesn't have any friends. Kids don't understand him so they shun him. Or beat him up. I imagine most adults would feel the same way. I'd probably avoid him, too.

The poor kid struggles with the day to day tasks of living: he won't bathe or brush his teeth unless he's forced to. He won't change his clothes. He hates school and he's at least two years behind his peers there. He cannot focus on anything for more than a few minutes at a time and he cannot hold still.

John says he talks ... CONTINUOUSLY. When there's no one to talk to, he talks to himself. Loudly. Continuously. The boy is, according to his father, the single most annoying person he's ever known.

ADHD. What a horrible cross to bear!

After some research, John has concluded that our prisons are most likely filled with men and women who as children, suffered from untreated, undiagnosed ADHD. What a terrible waste of so many Lives!

Thank-you, Lord, for my healthy kids.

Just Say No

"No, thank-you."
"Not today."
"I'm really not interested."
"I don't want that."
"I don't think so."
"I'd rather not."

Or just plain "No".

NO.

Someone wants you to do something, but you don't have time. Or you simply don't want to. Someone wants to sell you something, or give you something. Someone wants to borrow something of yours. Just tell them no, right? It sounds so easy. Such a tiny word. Only two letters. N-O. At times like this, every fibre of your essence screams it. In your head, it's positively deafening. Nooooooooooooooo bloody way, you think.

Then the person brings just the slightest amount of pressure to bear - It needn't be much. A raised eyebrow. A little pout, perhaps - and you give in to their demands. You fold like a house of cards. You buckle and come apart like a bad railway trestle.

"Yeah, sure. OK. It's no problem at all. Alright, then."

The voice you hear is your own.

Later, you berate yourself for your weakness.

"Why can't I just say no?" you ask. "I'm such a push-over."

I think many of us fit that description from time to time. I sure do. And I understand why I do it. I do it because I'm scared. That's why we all do it. Fear - The more powerful of the two great motivators, the other of course, being Love. I say yes when I mean no because I'm afraid the other person will get angry, or because he'll not like me if I don't provide what he wants. I need to please him/her to ensure the continuation of the relationship. I'm afraid to jeopardize that relationship, even if it's a 'relationship' with a relative stranger. And especially if it's a relationship with a friend.

I went to see the chiropractor this morning. Dr. Ettenson. He's a nice man. About my age. His office is just round the corner here in Mimico. I began seeing him when I hurt my back at the Toronto Music Garden. Remember that? Way back last month. Dr. Ettenson helped me feel better. He did, and that's the Truth. But I have no more back pain, Ms J. It's gone now. My back is feeling fine again. Really. But chiropractors often encourage patients to undergo treatment long after the condition has been corrected. That's been my experience, anyway.

"So I'll see you next week, Dale," said the good doctor, and began to log a new appointment in his big book.

"Do you really think that's necessary, Doc?" I asked. "I feel fine now."

"Well, we like to keep on top of these things, Dale," he told me matter-of-factly. "I recommend a slow tapering off of treatment over the next two to three months. That's the best way to prevent re-injury."

It was clear he wanted me to keep coming back. That's how he earns his money. And I felt myself wanting to please him. I wanted to see his look of concern become a happy smile. Besides, what's another visit or two? It was only $17 per visit.

"Why don't you come back in two weeks and we'll see how you feel after that."

I was quite aware of my feelings, Ms J. I knew what I was thinking and why. I looked into his brown eyes and said nothing for a minute. Gosh, it was SO uncomfortable not to give in, but I held firm and just stood there, looking at his bushy eyebrows and feeling my feelings.

"Oh look. I have a space available on October 11th. 11:15. That's three weeks from today."

Three weeks now, was it? It was working. I was winning! I was not giving in. I was in control. I have power, Ms Journal. I was using my power to honour my Self. I was giving myself a gift. Giving my Self a gift. And it was wonderful!! Power begets power and so bolstered my courage and confidence. I smiled at that realization and spoke my heart's desire.

I spoke clearly. Softly, but firmly.

"No. I feel fine, really. I don't need any more treatment, Doc."

I offered my hand across the desk. "Thanks so much for helping me. I sure appreciate it. If my back bothers me again, I'll be back. Otherwise ... Take care."

We shook hands and he smiled warmly. Then I walked out of the office into the brilliant sunshine on Lakeshore Blvd. On the way home, I breathed deeply the brisk autumn air. The sky was a gorgeous sparkling blue. I smiled all the way home.

I hadn't actually 'won', you know. There was no competition. What I had done, was honour my own needs. I had engaged in an act of Self Love. I had acted not out of fear, but rather out of Love.

And surprise! My relationship with Dr. Ettenson remains intact.


Good morning Dale,

How are you? I know you have had a busy week (your blog told me) but I was just wondering if you got a chance to call Pat about that art workshop. It's next Saturday so I was wondering whether or not to make plans. Once again I just want to make sure that you know it's okay to say"no, I'm not interested" and I will still be your friend.

Frankie :)

Gosh, I love my Life!!

Best Thank-you Note Ever!

I found this in my inbox this morning. I'm still smiling.

thank you dad for the money and the card. it was real nice. i love you and i always will.

Dan

I love you too, Dan. I love you too.

Another Woman "Friend"?

I have a lot of friends, Ms J. I enjoy good, close friendships with perhaps eight or ten people. Of course, there are dozens more that I like, but who I see less frequently. Among my closest friends, only about two are men. My friends are mostly women: married women, lesbians, women to whom I’m not physically attracted, and women with whom I enjoy purely platonic relationships. I've never had this many friends before in my Life; the idea of having a woman as a friend is something I would never have considered five years ago.

Why so many women friends? Why now?

I've been divorced twice. I think I need to learn how to relate to women. Until recently, I've been quite sexist in my beliefs and saw most women either as possible sex partners, or as baby makers, cooks and seamstresses. That's it. Nothing more. I'm sorry, girls. But that's what I always thought of you. Clearly, I was missing some vital bits of information. Or ignoring them.

So along came Andra. And Christine. Frances. Leigh Ann. Jenn and her partner Heath ... I mean Jane. Karla. Bev, for a year or so. My "GO" girls on the train - Cathy, Violet and Rose. Even my blog mates are mostly women. (you know who you are)

I've learned a lot these past few years. I think I'm beginning to gain some insight into the inner workings of a woman's heart and mind.

Beginning, I said.

Recently, another woman has come into my Life. Carol. I first met Carol at a writers' workshop I attended in July at the Mimico library. She's a lovely lady. English. (Figures, eh? I do a British play and suddenly, England's all around me.) Anyway, she's very nice. Older. Fifty-something, perhaps, although she's quite young at heart. She lives nearby. Alone. Divorced. Two grown children. A daughter in California and a son here in Ontario.

She seems to fancy me. I'm not sure how I feel about Carol yet, though. Like I say, she's very nice. Funny. Smart. Good writer. I've bought two tickets to a play - "No Sex Please We're British". We going together next month and she's invited me to her condo (luxury condo) for dinner before the show.

I guess I'm just wondering where this will lead. To a romance? To her/my bed? A part of me longs for that, of course. And you can well imagine what part. But maybe Carol is destined to become another female friend. We met this morning for coffee at a local cafe. I do enjoy her company. She's been coaching me a bit on my English dialect.

But what's the real Truth here, Ms J? What's the microscopic Truth?

The Truth is that lately, I've been as horny as a thornbush and I'd dearly love a good romp. There. I've said it. Happy?

But I often question my motives before I act. That way, my actions are purer and more honourable. If I end up in bed with this woman because I've lead her to believe there's a future for us, isn't that wrong? I think so.

If you could answer me Ms Journal, what advice would you offer?

My Tub Overfloweth

Yes. Now where was I? Just a sec. Let me look and see where I left off. Oh right. "It wasn't deep, but it was everywhere." Water on the floor, that's right.

Well, in my haste to get my errands done yesterday morning, I failed to notice the empty wine bottles soaking in the laundry tub. I had put them there to remove the labels. I bottle my own wine, Ms J. Much cheaper that way. The washing machine empties into that tub but the tub was already nearly full of water. So the soapy water, and later the rinse water from the washer, spilled over onto the concrete floor.

I shook my head as I surveyed the result and smiled wryly as I recalled setting the controls for an EXTRA rinse. Good job, I thought, sarcastically. Well done!

Fortunately, I had two large pieces of carpet in front of the washer and dryer which soaked up some of the water. There's a drain in the floor not far from the laundry tub and most of the spill found its way there. Eventually. There was no serious damage, really. Just a mess to clean up.

On the bright side though, I did manage to get things organised a bit down there. And the floor looks pristine!

One of Those Days

"Mama said there'd be days like this,
There'd be days like this my Mama said."

Last night, I popped over to a friend's house for a visit after work. It was Frankie. She fed me dinner. We had a delightful chat. I always enjoy the time I spend with her. It was about 10:00 when I took my leave and I hurried home. I had things to do at home before bedtime. The last thing I did was make a list of things I wanted to accomplish today.

• Collect the necessary paper work for my income tax return and take it all to my accountant.
• Go to Home Depot and select a new front door for my house.
• Water flowers
• Mow the lawn.
• Buy some replacement bags for the vacuum
• Wash the sheets on Dan's bed (Meagan's coming this weekend)

This morning, I came home from work full of energy and feeling quite optimistic about the productive morning I was planning. Things were about to change.

I stripped the bed and threw the sheets and pillow cases in the washer downstairs in the basement. I put a huge flannel blanket in too. It was a big load so I set the automatic washer on "Super Large". Too much detergent so I requested a second rinse. Then I gathered up my papers and headed off to the accountant. The office was closed. The sign said they open at 10:00 and it was already 10:20.

"Oh well. No problem," I thought. "I'll visit The Vac Shack to buy some vacuum cleaner bags." It was only across the street.

"Closed Thursdays," declared the sign in the window. Alright then. I got back in the car and headed off to Home Depot.

It's a huge store, Ms J. Home Depot has everything one could possibly imagine for the home. Home repairs. Renovations. Et cetera. Windows. Carpet. Shingles. Bricks. Lumber. Hardware. Appliances. Garden centre. I wandered the aisles for half an hour marvelling at the vast array of products, many of which, quite honestly I wasn't able to identify. Men with dusty clothes and work boots stood around examining power tools and aluminium duct work and electric pumps. They were real men, in a store that catered to real men. I found the experience a bit overwhelming and for a few anxious minutes, I forgot what I had come for.

A door. Yes. A new door for the front of my house. To keep the cold winds out this winter and hopefully save some money on heating oil.

At last, I found the door aisle. So many different styles and sizes. Doors come in different sizes Ms Journal. The knobs and lock mechanism are sold separately. I wandered up and down that aisle for a long time until I found something I liked. Now what?

"Can I help you?"

Lovely. "Yes," I said. "I'd like to buy this door, I think, and have someone install it for me."

He handed me a glossy brochure and said, "OK, sir. Just call this number and someone will come round to see you. You can choose your door from his catalogue, and decide on a date for installation. You can do it all from home, sir. And he'll have a much greater selection than we have here in the store."

Right. So I had wasted another hour.

I returned to the accountant's office where he told me I was missing a vital bit of information that he'd need to do my taxes. I'll have to make more phone calls and wait for more papers from my employer. Shit! I thought I was finally getting on with my taxes. I'm five months late in filing this year, and I'll owe the government money. Interest is accruing.

Home again, I went down into the cellar to finish the laundry and found water all over the floor. Soapy water. It wasn't deep, thank goodness. But it was everywhere.

To be continued ...

He Still Loves Me

Dan still loves me. I somehow knew he would, even though I'll confess (again) to a certain amount of unwarranted concern. Here's how my Sunday went:

I went to church in the morning. I haven't exactly been a regular there all summer. But it's September, the kids are back to school, and it's time to re-adjust my Life to the familiar rhythms of fall and winter. Church is part of that routine. It was great to see those friends I haven't seen all summer and chat after the service and get caught up on what's been happening around Mimico.

Linda's sermon made me cry. She spoke about God the father and about His Love for us, His children. She reminded us that God loves each of us, even when we don't love Him. Even when we don't deserve Love. Linda (Rev. Linda, our minister) told us the parable of the lost sheep and how God values even the little ones, the young ones, and the ones who are lost.

I thought of Daniel, my only son. He's eighteen. Sunday was his birthday. My lip quivered. My heart ached for him. My spirit filled suddenly with the knowledge of how much God loves me. And how much I love my son. I allowed myself to feel my hurt, my fear, my shame and I soon tasted the salty tears of pent-up emotion. I didn't even try to hide it. I didn't care who saw me. It was a strange sensation, Ms J. Joyful and sad, all at the same time.

In the narthex, after the service, I offered Linda my hand. Linda is a mother of teenaged kids. She must have seen my tears for she put her arms out and pulled me into a warm embrace. Tight. And for a long moment. No words were exchanged. Sometimes Ms Journal, words are unnecessary.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I spent the afternoon at the theatre in Caledon. It was the first read-through of "Caught In The Net." The cast and director sat in a circle and read through the play. It's a delightful piece. Lots of energy. Very funny. Very fast-paced. Everyone (especially me!) is keen to get started. The excitement in the room was nearly palpable!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Kelly had planned a birthday supper for Dan and I was invited. I was nervous and excited as I made the forty minute drive from Caledon to Acton. "How shall I behave?" What will I say to him?" "Should I try to explain why I behaved the way I did last week?" And more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I parked the car on the road and approached the door to their home. I quietly climbed the front step, stood on tip-toes and peered through the window. A smokey grey cat walked by swishing his tail indignantly. I drew a deep breath and tapped gently on the door. Meagan opened it.

"Hi Dad."

She was wearing a pink and black striped necktie like Brittany Speers.

"Hi Scout," I said. "Is Dan here?"

I guess that was a silly question.

"Dad! Of course he's here. It's his birthday. Where did you think he'd be?"

"I'm here Dad."

And there he was. My boy. My great, tall, bearded little boy. Our eyes met and he held my gaze. Then, he put his long arms out and I moved into his embrace. He held me tightly, Ms J. And I hugged him back. For a long time. No tears, though. No words either.

I've discovered that sometimes, with hugs, no words are necessary.

Happy Birthday, Dan. Happy 18th birthday. I love you, son. And I always will.

Ahem ... 

Dale's Advice for the Lovelorn

I was alone here on Saturday. Slept late. 8:00 am. Spent the day doing housework. It was very difficult to get motivated in that direction, but after I got started, I didn't want to stop. The place looks fabulous again. I'm afraid I really let things go when Dan was here. I'm not sure why, exactly. It just seemed too difficult to dust and vacuum around him. Remember, I'm used to cleaning an empty house. A cop-out, Ms. J? Probably, but it's all I can tell you.

Christine phoned me on Saturday afternoon. Christine is my friend. Christine is completely adorable. I wish she and I ...

Christine is my friend. I invited her round for supper.

She's feeling a bit blue because she's lonely. I'm lonely too. We're all lonely sometimes, aren't we, Ms J? She hasn't yet found Mr. Right. And she longs to have children. I offered her my son, but wisely she declined.

We had just finished our meal, (boiled potatoes and barbecued chicken - Christine brought a lovely tomato salad.) when Leigh Ann popped over. Leigh Ann is another friend. We served Leigh Ann as well, then the three of us sat and chatted over tea.

We talked about rebellious teens and we talked about men and women and relationships. Leigh Ann has yet to find her soulmate, and she too, wants to start a family. Both women are in their mid 30's. They're both educated, intelligent, attractive, funny. And they both expend masses of mental energy thinking about finding a man and having babies. For both women, the sound of their own biological clocks is deafening.

I think I'm a pretty compassionate guy. I do care for my friends and of course I want them to be happy. But it just seems to me that they've both decided that if they don't have children, they cannot fulfill their Life's destiny. Their need to bear children seems almost beyond their control. The idea of living out their Lives without personally experiencing childbirth is something my friends refuse to even consider. I suppose for some women, the need to reproduce is so deeply embedded in ancient DNA, that they're literally not able to consider Life without children.

When the days shorten and the west wind arrives crisp and fresh, a harbinger of colder weather, the geese gather in ponds and fields and prepare to set out on their annual migration southward to warmer climes. They don't know why they're doing it. I don't suppose there's much discussion among them. They simply lift themselves into the air and fly. Nature has pre-programmed them to do so. They have no choice.

Could it be that some women have no choice, and for the same reason?

I listened to Christine and Leigh Ann last night. I took part in the discussion. I've suggested to them before that perhaps Life without children could actually be possible. But they are not open to that possibility.

I have children. I've been married twice. I've had a married Life with children and later, a married Life without. I've had it all, haven't I? My friends have had none of it. So my advice doesn't carry much weight.

Experience has shown me that I am often held prisoner by my desires and aversions. They hold me back from personal and spiritual growth. They limit me. Hobble me. I'm aware of this, but still I often pursue my desires and flee my aversions. I'm no better than anyone else. I don't yet have Life figured out.

On the wall by my stairs hangs a framed statement:

There has been an alarming increase in the number of things I know nothing about.

Local sign post. 

Canada Post 

My desk goes 80 mph. How about yours? 

Off to Pickering in the afternoon. 

Too tired to write much today

So I thought maybe I'd try a few photo posts. And various other kinds of posts.

Lest my ass be relocated to the small of my back.

"Do I have to spend the money on an air ticket and join Magz in an ass kicking expedition or are you gonna start forgiving yourself for normal human frailty??"

That's a very fair question, I think. I've pondered it for a while and this is what I've come up with:

I made a mistake. It wasn't my first. It won't be the last. Dan is my son, and I am his father. We are blood relatives. I love him. I know he loves me. We'll survive this and move forward into a deeper and hopefully stronger relationship. Here's what I'll take from this incident:

• Anger is a mask to cover fear. What am I really afraid of?
• Feeling hurt or frightened is NOT the same as feeling angry. Know the difference.
• Anger is a normal emotion. What we do with anger is what separates the men from the boys.
• I have 100% response-ability. I can choose to respond rather than react. I can choose the quality of my response.
• A response is based on Love. Reactions are manifestations of fear.
  
  It is my choice to make. Fear? Or Love.

This is what I left behind. These are the kids I long for. My heart's desire. Time marches on, though. 

One Sad Dad

The Boy is gone. Dan's gone to live with his mum again in Acton. We fought last night. And again this morning. He was here for nearly a month. We made some attempts at finding him a job, but I'm afraid it was half-hearted. On his part, anyway. I didn't know it, but my patience was wearing thin. Last night, I reached the end of my tether.

I told him about a sure-thing job opportunity at a nearby Starbucks coffee outlet. He flatly refused to fill out the application I brought home for him. He gave reasons, the most compelling of which was as follows:

"They have stupid names for cup sizes, like tall and short."

Honestly.

Suddenly, all my frustration about lack of privacy and intrusion and messy kitchens and limited access to the computer and extra grocery expenses and higher phone bills .... came bursting out of my mouth.

"I've had it, Dan. That's it. The end of the line. Get a job or go back to school. Those are your only options. And this is the job you'll take, right here." I rattled the application in front of his face.

"I'm not working at Starbucks, Dad. And that's final."

"You're scared, aren't you, Dan? Scared to death of a little work. I think that's why you don't have a job. You don't WANT a job. You're a &%# chickenshit. That's what you are. You might as well run home to mummy, little boy. I've no room here for chickenshit little boys. I thought you wanted to be a man, but I guess not."

That was last night. This morning, things got worse. His mother's boyfriend came to get him this afternoon while I was at work. So he's back with his Mum. And Meagan.

It feels good to be alone again. That sounds horrible, I know. But I've lived alone for four years, Ms J. Having someone living here was a helluva big adjustment. The selfish Dale is relieved to have my house to myself again. But the other Dale, the father part, wishes Dan were back here with me.

I feel as though I've failed as a dad. I haven't had much practice these past ten years or so. Meagan and I share a good relationship. Not so with her brother. When Dan wrote "You don't even know me", he was right. I don't know my son. He's a hard guy to get to know. He's private. He doesn't share his feelings the way Meagan does. I didn't know he wanted to go alone to search for work. How the hell could I know that? I'm not a mind reader, Ms J. And I told him that. In a loud, angry voice, of course.

Let go, and let God. That's what they say at AA. That's what I always say. My friend Jennefer likes to remind me of it when she sees I've forgotten.

Let go, and let God.

I say it. I know it. Why can't I live it???!!!

I must learn to be more patient with Dan. I must learn tolerance, or better yet, acceptance. I must allow him to move at his own pace, even though his pace is, by my standards, utterly glacial. Surely there must be some way to motivate this young man. There has to be a way to help him move forward with his Life, without prodding and goading and criticizing and pushing him. And without me getting furious when he's intractable.

I love my son, Ms Journal. Whatever happened to that little boy who had only to hold my hand to feel confident? God, I miss him so much.

It's his birthday on Sunday. He'll be eighteen. Happy Birthday, Dan. I hope your day will be a good one. I'll be popping over to see you then, to give you a gift. I hope you'll talk to me. I am so sorry for the way I've behaved. I love you, Dan. And I always will.

Father of the Year

Dad:

Don't talk to me anymore. I'm pissed right off with you. Now I'm moving back with Mom. When you get home after the second shift, I won't be here. I wonder why I haven't gotten a job, maybe cause you came in with me everyplace I handed a resume in. Now all those businesses think I need my daddy to lead me around. I'm NOT scared to get a job either. And I am especially not chickenshit, screw you! You don't even know me! You don't even know the first thing about me!

GOODBYE!

Working hard. Hardly working. 

Family Gatherings

I spent the long weekend camping with my family. Mum and Dad. Brother, Pat. Sisters, Donna and Helen. And sisters, Jill and June, the twins. Pat's wife, Linda. Jeff, their son. Meagan and I. Jill has a husband, Dave, and two kids - Erin and Jason. June has a husband too. Rob. And two kids - Shauna and Ryan. There were a lot of us in attendance. About eight others were unable to go. Together, there are enough of us to populate a small island nation.

We're a fairly close family. Always have been. Sure, there have been conflicts, but they're usually resolved quickly and with a minimum of tears or blood shed.

My brother and I enjoy teasing the youngest ones. Jill and June together have the four youngest. Four little ankle biters, all aged five and under. It's so rewarding to tease them, Ms J. They believe every silly thing you tell them, no matter how outrageous it is. They're so sensitive. Thin-skinned, I mean. They'll cry and pout at the slightest thing. And the children are no different.

OK. Sorry. I didn't mean that. I once had small children and I know how sensitive I was (still am) when I feel someone's picking on my kids. I get really defensive. Any parent would, I guess.

So there was little Ryan, kneeling on the grass, head buried in his hands, crying (or at least pretending to) over some toy that had been taken from him. His little bum presented itself as a ready target for the toe of my boot and I couldn't resist. So I prodded him gently. A few times. Not hard. I was only playing. Trying to get him to stand up and lighten up. It was just then, that June saw me.

"Leave him alone, for God's sake," she cried. "Why can't you just stop pestering him and leave him alone? I didn't tease your kids when they were that age. Why do you have to tease mine? Just leave him alone!"

She was really upset. I tried to joke my way out of it, but honestly, Ms J, my sister was right. She had me. I wonder why it's so much fun to tease them? Is it some kind of control thing? I mean, they're children for goodness sake! Don't they deserve to be treated with kindness? I would never hurt them. I love them. But I do enjoy pestering them. I did it to Dan and Meagan, when they were young. I still bug Meagan sometimes, but not often anymore.

I think I might do well to ponder my real motives here. What is it about teasing these kids that I find so rewarding? Do I enjoy listening to them squeal? Certainly not!! Do I want them to resent me? No. Am I keen to raise the ire of my sisters? I hope not. I'm four years their senior and I used to tease them unmercifully when we were young.

Maybe it's time, Ms J. Maybe it's time I learn to interact with young children in a way that doesn't involve teasing. I'm sorry Ryan. Uncle Dale will have to work on that. OK, Little Man?

Looking at Life, and Seeing It.

I've just read the post on Gemmak's blog about photographs. Nature photos. I followed the link she provided to the website of one Laurie Campbell. Beautiful pictures! And I thought about what Gemmak had written about possessing "an eye" for beauty.

Everyone has the capacity to experience beauty. We can't all photograph it, but we can all enjoy it. Here's an excerpt from my daily journal. It was spring 2000 when I wrote it.

What a fabulous morning! I got up planning to take part in the "Lori's Room Walkathon." It's a walk to raise money for St. Joseph's Hospital. Lori is a young woman who died of cancer a few years ago. Her parents were so grateful for the quality of care she received at St. Joe's, they organized a walkathon in Lori's memory. It has become an annual event starting at Lakeshore Blvd and Parklawn Rd, and finishing at St. Joe's.

Anyway, I was late arriving at the starting point and I couldn't find any participants. I sat down on a bench in the park. The sun snuggled in, warm on my lap, and the breeze felt so soft on my face. I closed my eyes and listened. I heard seagulls laughing. I heard the faraway sounds of people talking. I heard red-winged blackbirds and starlings and a robin.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. I opened my eyes and watched as a flock of mute swans passed. They swooped low over the lake and touched down, skiing briefly on webbed feet before settling gracefully into the sparkling water. I had never seen swans fly before. They are so proud, so completely calm and majestic!

A purple finch arrived suddenly and perched delicately on the twig of a young willow tree at the waters edge. He looked at me and flew off but returned a second later to the same twig. He did this four or five times. I watched him finally as he flew up quite high over my head.

Wow! The sky was the most beautiful colour of blue! If I were to choose a shade of blue for the heavens, I couldn't have selected a richer hue. And right in the middle of that cloudless wonder was a kite. A snow white kite, resplendent against an azure background. It was magnificent. I watched as it danced at the end of an invisible string. I laughed out loud. And I silently thanked that little finch for showing me something I might have missed.

I didn't take part in the walkathon but that's OK. I was awake - fully conscious - and completely in awe of the world. As I walked home, I noticed the shapes and colours and textures of things around me. Apple blossoms. Tulips. The craggy face of a grandpa riding a mountain bike and the shiny black pigtails of the little girl on rollerblades racing to keep up with him. Even the cracks in the sidewalk seemed straight and perfect.

Sometimes I feel so connected to this planet. This morning was one of those times. I love when that happens. Is it something that happens randomly and occasionally, or do I bring it about by simply opening myself to something that always was and ever shall be? And how can I live my Life in a way that will preserve and maintain that feeling of connectedness?

My friend Tammie is Anishanabe Indian. She gave me this native prayer:

My flesh and bones are of the earth. The earth is my flesh and bones. Then we are one.
My breath is the air. The air is my breath. Then we are one.
My eyes are the light. The light is my eyes. Then we are one.
Water is my emotions. My emotions are water. Then we are one.
I am spirit. Spirit is me. Then we are one.
I am present in all elements. All elements are within me. Then we are one.

I like that. I'm going to visit my parents today. I'll tell them I love them and thank them for helping me and guiding me and encouraging me to be .... well, me! I love my life. Thanks be to God.

Hello? Hello?

"You see, wire telegraph is a kind of a very, very long cat. You pull his tail in New York and his head is meowing in Los Angeles. Do you understand this? And radio operates exactly the same way: you send signals here, they receive them there. The only difference is that there is no cat."

(Albert Einstein explaining the workings of early radio to a group of American journalists, circa 1900.)

My phone's not working. I picked it up yesterday to call Kelly and there was no dial tone. Not much of any sound at all really. A bit of crackly static, but that's all. It got me thinking again about the wonders of modern communication, and about how we've come to rely on this technology.

I do need a phone, Ms J. It's become indispensible today, hasn't it? So I walked next door to Glen and Cathy's house and used their phone to call the phone company. The company is called Bell Canada. They own the telephone system in Ontario and Quebec. Nearly two-thirds of Canada's population live in those two provinces.

Bell Canada. Named for Alexander Graham Bell, a Scot who came to Canada as a child with his parents in the 19th century. It was in Brantford, Ontario, 50 miles west of Toronto, that Mr. Bell invented the telephone.

I'll bet old Alex would be astounded by the improvements we've made to his simple device and by the incredible advances we've made in the field of information technology. It certainly amazes me, I can tell you!

Radio is an important tool at work. Every locomotive is equipped with a radio and we use it frequently throughout the day to communicate with the conductor and with others who help direct the safe movement of trains and engines.

I press the button and speak into the telephone style handset. Somehow, as if by magic, my voice travels through a coiled cord, up into an antenna on the roof of the locomotive, and then across twenty or thirty miles of ... what? Air? ... to reach another radio where it instantly comes out of a speaker to the ear of the listener. My voice. It even sounds like me. This never fails to amaze me, Ms J. And wireless radio has been around for nearly a hundred years! Imagine my delight and fascination with cordless phones, cell phones and now the internet. I use these technologies daily but still they astound me.

The Boy, however, tends to get quite impatient when things don't work as they should. Dan really felt the need to talk with his mother to let her know when we'd be arriving. (I planned to pick up Meagan and drop off Dan so he could spend the weekend with his mother.) So he walked down the street to a pay phone and called his mother. He was gone about ten minutes.

Later in the day, I responded to an email from a friend in Scotland. She was sitting at her computer and so answered back right away. We exchanged messages back and forth for a few minutes before I had to rush off with Dan to Acton.

I've just been thinking about all that. It took Dan ten minutes to walk to a phone booth to communicate with his mum. Kelly lives about thirty-five miles away. In that same time, I used the internet to chat with a woman who lives three thousand miles away, across the Atlantic Ocean. Dan's call cost about $2. Mine was free.

It's absolutely astonishing! The world is indeed becoming a global village.

My Niece is Abroad

A broad. Ha! That's a good one. In case you don't know, Ms J, the word "broad" is North American slang for "woman." It was popular in the 1940's, but it's seldom heard today. There's an old joke about the prime minister sending one of his cabinet ministers abroad. A "broad." Get it? I know. It's not very funny is it? Alright, then.

Yes. Now where was I? Oh yes. My niece. Her name is Jenna Lynn. Her mother is my sister, Helen. I'll be seeing Helen tomorrow, actually. But it will be a LONG time before I see Jenna again.

You see, Ms J, Jenna Lynn is in Sweden. Yup. Sweden. Scandal-navia.

She too keeps a blog. I've asked her permission to share her blog with others and she's agreed. So if anyone wants to read about the adventures of a Canadian teen in Sweden on exchange for a year - A Year!!! - I invite you to visit http://www.aboutmylife.net/users/jenna_lynn/
I'm sure she'd be thrilled to hear from anyone.

And, as Forrest Gump would say, that's all I got to say about that.

Ducking the Fog at Work

Whew! We arrived safely at our destination this morning, Ms J. I napped on the empty train on the way to Hamilton , as is my habit. (Great way to begin my work day, don't you think?) We arrived at 6:10 and we all (four of us) convened downstairs in the coffee shop at the train station. My mate joined us at the table, slopping his coffee about and yammering to no one in particular.

"Foggy this morning. I'm glad my work is done. I can relax on the trip back to Toronto."

I detest fog, Ms J. Oh, it's fine when you're out walking or sitting on a bench in the park early in the morning. The mist lends a kind of milky surreality to the world. I rather enjoy it then. But at work, it's dreadful.

The train I operate is a commuter train. A signal system tells me how fast I can go and gives me advance notice of track conditions ahead. That is, if I can see the signals. After leaving Hamilton, we stop at Aldershot, Burlington, Appleby, Bronte, and Oakville. Five stops. That is, if I can see the station platforms in time to stop there. We must operate on time, according to our schedule. But how? How can I be expected to operate my train on time, when visibility is restricted to perhaps twenty-five yards? It's extremely stressful.

We were late this morning. Eight minutes late. The company does allow some latitude due to bad weather. I hope the traveling public does as well.

I think of them all sitting back there, reading the morning paper or, God forbid, chatting amongst themselves, blissfully unaware of the fact that their engineer (that's me, Ms J) has just peeled his eyeballs off the windshield for the twentieth time, as he searches for some recognizable landmark to regain his bearings.

Yes. It's very stressful.

I like my job. It's fun. It's rewarding. I feel as though I'm helping in some small way to keep the economic engine of southern Ontario turning. I take people to their office jobs in downtown Toronto. And at day's end, I return them safely to their families. I'm fairly well paid.

But on a morning such as this, I really earn my keep!

Another busy day

Dan and I went out job hunting again today. We left resumes at six places. And we popped by an office supply store where he'd filled out an application last week to ask if they'd begun interviewing people yet, or had they already finished hiring. We were told they hadn't yet interviewed anyone. Perhaps next week.

There's lots of industry here in Mimico. We left resumes at Kraft Canada, and at Campbell's Soup. Tomorrow, we'll try the Daimler Chrysler trim plant and Alcan aluminium foil division. Persistance and perseverance must eventually pay off. The last stop we made before coming home was a local shopping mall where he left resumes at two music stores. The Boy had worked at a music store before, for about a year. That was his last job, which ended about eighteen months ago.

He really enjoys music, Ms J. He calls it music. I call it noise. I know. I sound like my father. Too bad! Dan listens to groups with names like Metallica and Slayer and Cannibal Corpse. Megadeth. Iron Maiden. Cradle of Filth. Dying Fetus.

Lovely names, eh? Or how about the song titles, Ms J?

44 Calibre Love Letter. Frantic Disembowelment. Genital Grinder. Hell Awaits. Silent Scream. Baby's First Coffin.

It's nothing more than horrible, disgusting filth. But Dan calls it music. I think perhaps it's designed to shock the listener. Fortunately, I am unable to listen to it.

Anyway, he told the managers of these two music shops that he was familiar with classical music, since that's the kind of employee they were looking for. I was a bit surprised by what I considered outright lies. But Dan wants a job. He'd love to work again in a music store.

"If they want an expert on freakin' Beethoven," he said later, "that's what I'll give them."

I admire his determination, Ms J. But I fear his wild exaggerations may return to haunt him. And if they do, that is, if he gets a job there and they discover he knows nothing about classical music, they may fire him. But you know what?

There will be a lesson for my son even in that. Life's about learning, isn't it?

Busy Daze

Hi Ms J. Sorry I haven't written lately. Sigh ... I have so much to talk about but so little time. Things have have been pretty good at work lately. Angry Bob's still away, working another train. I've had a new mate this week. His name is Colin Ashford and he's very nice. Yes. Life at work has been fairly peaceful. Of course, this is subject to change without notice.

Things have been more hectic at home. Dan complained last week of ear problems.

"My ear is plugged, Dad. It's ringing inside and driving me freakin' crazy. Freakin' crazy, Dad! I can't stand it!!"

That's a strange thing to say, don't you think? "I can't stand it." We all say it from time to time. "I can't stand it!" But we can, in fact, "stand it." We have stood it, and are continuing to "stand it" even as we say it. I didn't share this thought with The Boy, though. Timing is everything, isn't it Ms J?

I hoped his problem would cure itself over the weekend, or perhaps Kelly (his mother) would know what to do. But alas, the ear remained unchanged on Monday when I drove to Acton to exchange the kids. Leave Meagan. Pick up Daniel.

"Stop whining about it, Boy," I told him that evening. "Go to the drug store and ask the druggist for help."

Learning to care for yourself is, I think, part of growing up, yeah?

So he went on Monday. The druggist sold him some ear drops and a small bulb-type syringe. It looks like a tiny turkey baster. I put drops in his ear then flushed it with warm water two or three times daily for a couple of days, but there was no improvement. So I called the doctor.

"Is Dr. Panturescu taking new patients?" I asked.

"No. He's not. Sorry."

"Oh dear," I said. "Well Dr. Pants is my doctor and I was hoping he might examine my son. It's Dale Pringle calling."

That seemed to change things suddenly. I was astounded.

"Oh hi, Dale! How have you been? We haven't seen you for a long time. Maybe the doctor will make an exception for your son. I'll ask him later today and call you back."

I couldn't believe the girl even remembered me. I haven't been in the office there for more than a year. Guess I must have made an impression. She called back in an hour with great news.

"Hi Dale. It's Donna calling from Dr. Panturescu's office. He says he'll see your son. Would you like to bring him in tomorrow? I have an opening at 10:50."

Wow! That was amazing! The Boy has a doctor here in Mimico. My doctor. And he'll see him tomorrow! Donna. I shook my head. So many Donna's.

Yesterday, I took my boy to the doctor. 10:50. Dan insisted on breakfast at McDonalds first. God, I don't know how he can eat that junk, although it does taste good, doesn't it? Everything was going smoothly, until we arrived at the doctor's office.

"Hi Dale!" the receptionist smiled.

How the hell does she remember me? She must have an amazing memory.

"Is this your son?"

"Yes. This is my best and only son, Dan. He has a sore ear."

"OK. Can I see your health card, Dan?"

We have free medicare here in Canada, Ms J. I have never paid a dime to visit a doctor. My company drug plan covers the cost of most prescriptions, so I haven't often paid for drugs either. Every person in the province of Ontario is issued a plastic health card. It's like a credit card, I suppose. That's how the doctor bills the government. That's how the doctor gets paid.

"I don't really have a health card," said Dan. "I lost it a while ago."

That was no problem. The receptionist simply called the government office to ask about a health card number for Daniel Pringle. She looked rather dismayed as she thanked the person and hung up the phone.

"What's the matter?" I said.

"The card's been cancelled."

"Why, though? Why would OHIP cancel someone's card?"

"If it was reported lost or stolen," she said, "they'd automatically cancel the card."

"What now?" I asked.

"Well, it'll cost you $25. for the visit. I'll give you a receipt and when you get a new card, we'll refund your money."

But I only had $15. with me. I wasn't expecting to have to pay. Who the hell pays a doctor out of their own pocket???!! I'd never imagined it.

"All I have is $15. Can I give you the rest later? I have a dentist appointment in ten minutes but I'll be back to collect the boy."

She agreed and I gave her the money. Very strange, Ms J. But I guess there are places in the world where one pays out of pocket for every doctor's visit.

Things are changing here in Canada. There's talk of privatization of our sacred and envied health care system. It may yet come to pass.

More thoughts yet to share. Stay tuned.