This Morning

Morning Ms J.

I'm feeling much better today, thank you. The dawn has come and with it comes new hope, another opportunity to create the kind of day I want for myself. I spoke with my mum last night by telephone and told her about Dan's current challenge. She was sympathetic and compassionate. She listened without judgment and offered the wisdom of her years.

"He's in the best possible place right now, Dale," she said. "He'll get the help he needs. All we can do is let him know we love him and support him. Try not to worry too much."

Then do you know what she said, Ms J?

"Let go and let God."

There it was again! I keep hearing that phrase. It pops into my head so often these days. Friends offer it as a kind of verbal hug. Jenn loves to remind me of it. Indeed, I awoke thinking of it this very morning.

Let go and let God.

It's a phrase commonly attributed to the AA programme. Alcoholics Anonymous. Narc Anon uses it too. Although these programmes are decidedly non-religious, the focus there is on acknowledging a benign sort of spiritual guide - a "Higher Power" - who ultimately controls our destiny.

And so it was with this little aphorism in mind that I sat down with a cup of coffee at the computer this morning to check my e-mail. The wind busied itself in the pre-dawn darkness, slowly undressing the trees and preparing them for the long bath of winter. The window frame bumped gently against the sill, startling me momentarily. Across the hall, my daughter still slept.

"Let go. And let God."

I can't do that, I thought. I can't just sit back and relax and not worry about Dan. He must be frightened there in that bizarre and antiseptic environment. The doors are all locked. Strange food to eat. Drugs, to keep him relaxed and compliant. Half-dressed zombies babbling incoherently, and hospital staff in long white coats. I saw this when I visited the boy on Friday, Ms J. I saw it and it seemed the most hopeless and depressing place I had ever been.

I opened my email programme and this is what I read:

A king called all of his wise men and counselors together for a meeting. He addressed them and said, "I want you to go and think, read, and research. Consult the wisest and most learned men in the land. Spare no expense."

"I want you to find the ONE statement that will get me through all situations in Life. One that will offer the greatest hope, whether I am on top of the world or in the depths of despair."

"I don't want to learn long and complicated philosophies. I want one simple statement. Find it or write it; I don't care. Just bring me the statement."

The men left and consulted for months. They finally returned and handed the King a scroll.

The King unrolled the scroll and on it, were written four words.

THIS TOO SHALL PASS

That was it.

The wise men explained.

When you are on top of the world, that is but a fleeting moment. Things change. Always remember, this too shall pass. And when you are feeling down, remember all nights are followed by day. Even at your lowest moment, remember also, this too shall pass.

All external circumstances and material things change.

No matter what your circumstances, remember,

THIS TOO SHALL PASS!

The wise men reminded the great King that this would get him through his earthly trials but the truly wise knew there were things beyond this earth and Life . . .

Things that are eternal.

True wisdom, they reminded the King, was in the ability to recognize the difference between the fleeting, temporal things of the material world and those things that are truly eternal.

“O Great King,” they said. "Most of the things that you worry or gloat about are temporary and our four words apply."

For most of your situations. . .

THIS TOO SHALL PASS!

Mountainwings.com

Thanks to friends. Family. Thanks be to God.

I love you, Dan. And I always will. Get well soon, my son.

The Long Way Home

The phone rang here yesterday afternoon. I sat and stared anxiously at it while I let it ring once more. I could feel the muscles knotting across my shoulders. My heart was racing. I knew who was calling. It was my son, Dan. He was calling from the hospital. I grabbed the handset and pressed the TALK button with my thumb.

“Hello?”

“I’m in the nuthouse, Dad. I’ve gone crazy.”

Kelly had phoned me on Thursday to tell me she was having trouble with The Boy again. She was sobbing and wailing and full of high anxiety. My ex-wife has always enjoyed great personal drama and the attention it garners. This time, perhaps it was justified.

“I can’t take it anymore, Dale,” she cried. “I want him out. I want this maniac out of my house.”

This wasn’t a premiere episode, Ms J. We’d had similar conversations in the past. Last summer, we decided in August that perhaps if Dan came to live with me, he might find some gainful employment and begin a new Life here in the suburbs of Canada’s biggest city.

He had ceased to develop emotionally. He was controlling and demanding at his home in Acton, about 45 minutes northwest of Mimico. Dan fought with his mother and bullied his younger sister. He was angry and resentful, often screaming obscenities at anyone there who dared to oppose him. Mercifully, he spent most of the day sleeping or watching television in his basement bedroom. He had no education, no job, no friends. He seemed hopelessly lost. And frustrated to the point of violence.

As you recall, Ms Journal, things didn’t work out very well here last summer. Dan spent a month here, but flatly refused to get a job. We fought, finally, and he retreated to the lonely but familiar comfort of his mother’s basement.

“I’m going to call the police, Dale, and have him removed from this house.”

“No,” I told her. “I’m not sure that would be the right thing to do. The police might charge him with uttering threats, or something. The last thing he needs is a criminal record. Let me talk to him, Kelly.”

Dan was in the basement again, alone as usual.

“He won’t talk to you, Dale. He just screams at me when I try to reason with him.”

I could feel myself getting angry.

“You tell that boy to get his ass upstairs now and talk to me or you WILL call the police.”

She relayed my message from the top of the stairs and received this in response:

“I DON’T FUCKING CARE!”

I managed finally to get Kelly calmed down on Thursday afternoon. But it was clear that the situation was becoming increasing intolerable.

I rushed off to work and went straight to a rehearsal in Caledon afterwards.

It was after 11:00 when I got home and there were numerous frantic voice mail messages waiting for me.

Apparently, Kelly had called the police that afternoon. Two constables had arrived and spoke with my son. They took him off to the hospital. He went quite willingly.

“Where is he, Kelly?” I asked.

“Well, there were no facilities for mental health assessment here or in Georgetown, so they took him to Brampton. William Osler Health Care Centre.”

I’m familiar with that hospital, having visited a friend there a few times.

“Okay, Kel’. When are the visiting hours? I’ll go today.”

There was no response and for a second, I thought the phone had gone dead.

“Kelly?”

“Yeah. I’m here. He … He doesn’t want to see you, Dale. He told the nurses that he didn’t want to see his dad.”

I just sat, Ms J, holding the phone to my ear and listening to the sound of my breathing.

“Why, Kelly?” I asked quietly.

“He’s pissed off at you because you didn’t believe there was anything wrong with him. You told him he was just being lazy.”

She was right. I nodded my head and turned to look at an old photograph of a six year-old Dan, proudly holding his baby sister. How could it have gone this far, I wondered? How could my son have strayed so far off the path?

Later, I phoned the hospital and I spoke with a nurse who agreed to ask Dan if he’d be open to a brief telephone conversation with his dad. And so he phoned.

“I’m alright, Dad. How are you doing?” he asked.

I could feel the tears coming on and I pressed my lips tight together and furrowed my brow.

“I’m fine, Dan. I’m just worried about you, that’s all. I just want to tell you I’m sorry, son. I’m really, really sorry.”

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

I went to see my son yesterday. I’ll tell you all about it, Ms Journal. But I’m having lots of feelings at the moment. Strong feelings. And I can’t right anymore.

I love you, Dan. And I always will.

Too much busyness

Hi Ms J. Boy have I ever been busy lately! I attend rehearsals in Caledon on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays. On Wednesdays, I go to an Alpha meeting with Christine and Leigh Ann. Nearly every night is a late night for me. I haven't had more than four hours sleep any night this week. And this past Monday, there was a special rehearsal in Caledon made necessary by the fact that we open on November 4th and none of the cast know their lines. I am quite stressed about that, actually. This play, "Caught In The Net", is the most challenging one I've ever done. The director feels the same way, and he's been involved in community theatre for thirty years!

I know. "Let go and let God." Yeah. I'm trying to practice detachment here but it's difficult to let go. The play will run. The curtain will open and we'll either sink or swim. I'll do my best to learn my lines, and assume the others will do the same. That's all I can do.

Christine and Leigh Ann and Bob will be joining me on stage at church this coming Saturday. We're going to provide some after-dinner entertainment for about 120 people who'll be attending a great reunion party at Wesley-Mimico United Church. My friends and I will be performing four short vignettes from a play we did two years ago. We've had only one rehearsal and we're a bit rusty, but it's surprising really, how quickly it all comes back to you.

A man cornered me at work yesterday and asked if I'd like to play Santa Claus at the company Christmas party. I did it a couple of years ago, and I got a lot of positive feedback.

I felt myself getting ready to say yes, but fortunately, at the last minute, I was able to stop myself and utter a firm "NO." I have enough on my plate already, thank you very much.

I got my car back from the repair shop yesterday. They did a great job. It looks as good as new. The total bill was $2470. My insurance company paid all but $800. There was a $300. deductable on the policy and I also had to pay for some new steering components that were badly worn and in need of replacement. So, all in all, I guess I was pretty lucky, really. The poor deer didn't fare nearly as well, did he?

Help!

I have a hard time asking for help. I don't like to admit that I sometimes need assistance. Asking for help is a sign of weakness.

"I can handle it," I tell myself. "I'll be alright."

I concoct the most feeble excuses not to call on a friend or neighbour.

"He's probably busy. I don't want to bother him."

And of course, fear is always there, lurking just around the corner.

"If I'm too much of a nuisance, they won't want to be my friends anymore."

It's crap, I know. But that's how I think sometimes, Ms Journal. I can't remember a time that a friend has asked for my help and I didn't give it freely and gladly. Why then would I expect others to behave differently?

I moved my fridge on Saturday morning. It's been making a funny rattling noise when it shuts off and I've been concerned about it. So, Saturday morning, I pulled the old girl away from the wall in the kitchen so I could inspect it. It's a very heavy appliance, my fridge. And old. Very old. Thirty years, maybe. Anyway, I strained and struggled to move this stupid thing and in doing so, I scratched the hardwood floor very badly.

I stood there, huffing and cursing and bemoaning the fact that I really hadn't the slightest clue what I was doing. I don't know anything about repairing fridges and I'd have to slide the bloody thing even further just to see behind it. I tried putting rags under the four corners, but I wasn't strong enough to tip the fridge and insert a cloth at the same time. And I was afraid I might injure my back.

"Shit," I said out loud. "Shit, shit, shit."

The refridgerator was now sitting in the middle of the kitchen (I have a tiny kitchen, Ms J) and it was also blocking the cellar door. I couldn't slide it back without further damaging the floor. I didn't know what to do. I tried sighing heavily and glaring at it, but that didn't help. I used stronger curse words and even threw a dish rag but all to no avail. I needed help.

I had plans to visit some friends that afternoon. Frankie and her husband, Tom. Frankie is the friend who went to the spiritual retreat with me last month.

"I wonder if Tom would help me," I thought, then followed immediately with "He's probably too busy. They're not coming over here anyway. I'm going there."

I stood back and looked again at the fridge, sitting crookedly in the middle of the kitchen floor. Well, I couldn't leave it like that, could I? Not forever. Eventually, it would have to go back against the wall where it belonged. And I would need help to move it.

I tried another glare and a half-hearted sigh. Yes, Ms J. I would have to bother my friends and ask for their help.

Tom did not hesitate whatsoever.

"Sure Dale. No problem. I'll help you. What time do you want us to come over? You want me to swing by Home Depot first and get some of those rollers for heavy appliances?"

"No, it's OK Tom. Just come over and give me a hand please. I'll make supper for us. We can have our visit here instead of at your place."

So my friends popped round a bit later. Tom is an engineer and he understands mechanical things better than I do. He examined the fridge and determined there's nothing we can do to stop the rattle. The compressor is nearly worn out and I may need a new fridge one day soon. He helped me put some old rags under the corners so it wouldn't scratch the floor, and then he helped me return it to its original location. With Tom's help, it was easy. I'm glad now that I called him.

I'm glad I asked for help. My problem is solved and I had a brilliant evening, visiting with my friends.

I still don't like asking for help, you know. But each time I do it, it gets a little easier. Asking for help is not a sign of weakness, is it Ms J? Christine says that admitting weakness is a sign of strength.

I suppose it's another of Life's great paradoxes.

And then there's G.A.

I had lunch with a friend yesterday. She's just moved into a new apartment here in Mimico, not five minutes from me. She was excited to show me her new place.

"Why don't you come a bit earlier, Dale?" she said and I could hear her smiling on the phone. "Come over around 10:30 this morning. I'm looking forward to seeing you again. We haven't gotten together in ages. I have so much news to tell you. You'll be my first real visitor."

"OK, G.A." I said. "I'll be there in half an hour."

So I went. G.A. met me at the door, offered me her radiant smile and a warm hug, and led me down the stairs to her new apartment.

It was big, Ms J. Bigger than I'd imagined. And roomy. The furniture was mis-matched and threadbare, obviously donated by caring friends whose beaming faces shone from a dozen glossy snapshots taped to the fridge and walls.

"Wow! It's big in here, G.A!"

"Yeah," she smiled and brushed her wavy brown hair away from her face. "Come see the rest of the place."

The kitchen was tidy and pleasant. Dishes and dry goods were stored neatly on shelves against the far wall. The counter top was tiny, but clean. The floors, although showing a great deal of wear, were clean. She put her hand on my back and propelled me through another doorway.

"Here's the bedroom. This is my bed and that's Hanna's over there."

It was Spartan, Ms Journal. But it was clean and tidy. Both beds had been neatly made. She turned to me and offered again that brilliant smile. Her brown eyes suggested laughter. Joy and intense pride simmered there, just beneath the surface.

"My own place! Isn't it great?"

G.A.'s aura shone bright white and cast a luminous wonder over everything there. I felt warm. I felt so ... I don't know, Ms J. Proud, I suppose. Happy for her. And affected by her enthusiasm. Her youthful enthusiasm. G.A. celebrated her seventeenth birthday last April.

My friend has not enjoyed an easy Life thus far. She and her younger sister, Hanna were born into a family of "have nots." I'm sure her parents did the best they knew how, but ... well, in my opinion, it was inadequate. They moved frequently and the girls had to find new friends in new schools. Demons such as mental illness and substance abuse were unwelcome guests, which the young sisters accommodated as best they could. They were, after all, only children.

I don't know all the sordid details, Ms J. But I do know this much: My young friend has something that my neighbour, Sherry does not.

G.A. loves herself.

Somehow, despite the odds, G.A. knows that she has value. Self worth. That's why she's found her own apartment, away from her father. That's why she keeps it and herself clean. She's proud of what she has. And she's grateful for the social assistance that makes it possible

Every morning, the two girls get up and go off to school. They know the value of education. They know that without it, they'll end up like their father. They love their father. And their mother too, I suppose. But they love themselves and so desire good things. They feel deserving of good things. I can't imagine either of these young ladies finding themselves in a situation like my friend across the street.

Maybe that's the answer then, Ms J. Maybe that's the answer to the question I asked about why some people seem to suffer so while others do not. The answer is Love. It's always Love, isn't it?

This time, it's the Love of self. Donna loved herself enough to divorce me and flee my controlling nature. I loved myself enough to admit I was in trouble and ask for help.

If we believe we're God's children, we must look after ourselves and love ourselves as He does. God must surely ache to see us not reaching our full potential. He must hurt to see us struggle just as any parent would.
Maybe the "have nots" are so named because they "have not" discovered their own immeasurable value.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At the kitchen table yesterday, I dipped my sandwich into my bowl of soup and looked at G.A. I studied her face for a moment before I spoke.

"Girl Alex?" I said.

"Yes, Dale?" Her eyebrows rose with the corners of her mouth.

"I hope Meagan turns out just like you."

Why Me?

The world, I'm told, is made up of two kinds of people:
"Haves" and "Have Nots."

That is, there are those who have enough wealth, health, and good fortune, and there are those who have not. Sherry is the lady who lives in the apartment building across the street. Sherry is a "have not." So is Karen, the lady who works at the coffee shop in the train station at Hamilton.

In my neighbourhood, there are many "have nots." I see them dragging children and bags of laundry to the Laundromat. In bonny weather, they sometimes sit outside the local coffee shops and smoke and spit on the sidewalk. Dirty people in wrinkled clothes. People in need of a shave or haircut. Their children have filthy clothes and noses caked with dried snot. We do our best to avoid them, even crossing the street if need be.

What has happened to these poor, feckless souls? Why has fate not smiled on them as it has me? I have a lovely home, a car, new clothes. A job. I bathe regularly and shave. Meagan cuts my hair. Why is there such disparity? Why is Life so challenging for some, while others (like me, for instance) seem to float along so painlessly. Does God love me more than them? I don't think so, Ms J. I'm sure He loves us all.

This morning I went into the station at Hamilton to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee. It's become my regular custom. The girls who work behind the counter know me by name and often surprise me with a free treat. This morning, Karen made me a lovely bagel, toasted with bacon and egg and cheese inside. It was delicious.

I spoke to her as I waited for her mate, Jaime, to fill my coffee mug.

"How was your weekend, Karen?"

She didn't appear to hear me so I spoke again. A bit louder this time.

"Did you have a good weekend, Karen?"

She slowly raised her sad face and when she spoke, her voice was a monotone, held flat perhaps by the weight of her heart.

"No," she said. "I didn't."

I was shocked by her appearance, Ms J! Her face was swollen. Both eyes were blackened. And a strip of white tape was folded neatly across the bridge of her nose. I gasped quietly at the sight.

"Oh my goodness!" I said as I approached her area of the counter. "What the hell happened to you?"

She looked me squarely in the eyes then, and for a second, her lip quivered. I thought she might cry, but she managed somehow not to.

"My son hit me."

I was incredulous. "Your son? Your son hit you? How old is he?"

"Eighteen," was her reply. "He's in jail now. The police took him away on Sunday."

I don't know all the facts. I only know that Karen has always been sweet and kind to me. Her smile greets me every morning. She has black, crooked teeth, and too many tattoos, but she's a beautiful person inside. I just know it. I can feel it somehow. She did not deserve to be beaten. No one does. Karen has a daughter who is eight and a violent son who's eighteen. She has two jobs and no husband.

Life is very difficult for Karen. And my Life is good. Why? Why me? Am I special? Just lucky?

I visited Sherry this morning after work. Sherry is the lady across the street. Sherry has two very young children and a husband who is angry and sometimes violent because he is unemployed. Sherry goes to my church. She's a talented artist and I popped over this morning to ask for her help in designing a simple set for the little play I'm doing at church.

She was on the phone when she answered the door and she motioned for me to come in. I hated to, Ms J. The place was a terrible mess. Broken toys and clothing were strewn about. Pictures hung crooked on the bright pink walls. The smell of dirty diapers and garbage was rather unpleasant, to put it mildly. I was uncomfortable, Ms J, but I put on a brave face and looked for a clean place to sit. I perched delicately on the edge of a kitchen chair and stared at the backs of two little urchins who were watching cartoons on the television.

Sherry hung up the phone and when she turned to face me, I could see she was disturbed.

"What's wrong, Sherry?" I asked. "Have I come at a bad time?"

"No, it's fine, really. We're fine. We'll be fine. It's just that ... Well, it's .. Ummm ... I think I'm gonna have to declare bankruptcy. It's been hard. Really hard." And she began to weep.

I put my arms out and she came to me and sobbed into my shoulder. I didn't know what to do, Ms J. Or what to say. So I held her and said nothing.

"Remember when you told us at church about how you were worried that you'd owe the government money for taxes, and you didn't think you'd have enough, but you said God provided for you and you ended up getting a refund?"

I rubbed her back.

"Yes, I remember."

I knew what was to follow and I dreaded hearing it.

"We've owed money for income tax three years in a row. We never get a refund. The kids haven't had a birthday present or a Christmas present for three years. It's been so hard, Dale. It's been so hard. I just can't go on any more. Maybe God doesn't care about me."

Any day now, I'll receive my tax refund. $1720. How can I accept it? How can I keep that money, Ms Journal, when others need it so desperately. And what would I do with it anyway?

Why me, I wonder? Why should I have so much while others struggle so?

It's about friends, really

Morning, Ms J. It's Sunday morning. 7:00. Dan and Meagan are still sound asleep across the hall. I've been up for an hour already. Shaved. Showered. I really like the quiet solitude of early morning, and there's something special about Sunday mornings. Something calm and comforting.

I had some friends over for dinner on Friday night. But let me refill my coffee mug first, and then I'll tell you all about it. I'll be back in a jiff.

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

OK. I'm back. Mmmm ... Lovely coffee. I put a little sprinkle of cinnamon in it this morning. I like it with just milk. I stopped using sugar long ago ... Oh, sorry. Yes. Back to my story.

A couple of weeks ago, I was asked to provide some entertainment for the reunion party at my church. Members past and present will gather there on October 30 to rekindle old friendships and perhaps make some new ones. A dinner is planned and after dinner, there's to be entertainment. Music will be provided by some congregation members who are so inclined. But the organizers were hoping for more variety.

"Maybe you could put on a play for us, Dale. You must know lots of actors who could help."

I'm already busy with a play, and struggling, quite frankly, to learn my lines. I'd have to be crazy to take on another project, and to present it so soon.

"Sure. I could do that. I'd be happy to help out."

"That's great! Thank you so much! I'm sure you'll be fantastic.

So I called on my friends to help. Bob King. Christine McCaw. Leigh Ann Owen. Actors all. And dear friends. They agreed to help and so I invited them over for dinner to discuss what we might do. I had some ideas, already.

Three years ago, we were all involved in a local play called "All I Really Need To Know, I Learned In Kindergarten." It's a brilliant play, taken from the book of the same name, written by an American, Robert Fulghum.

The play was, by our standards, hugely successful. We staged a remount the following year by popular demand. Audiences loved it. The cast and crew loved it. That play, Ms Journal, was probably the most fun I've ever had on stage.

Both play and book are simply collections of short stories - observations, if you will, of Life. The human experience. Thought-provoking. Sometimes funny. Often bitter-sweet. Wonderful! Perfect for a church audience.

So we dined, my friends and I, on roast pork and peppers. Potatoes. And pie for dessert. We talked. We reminisced. We laughed. After dinner, I found my copy of the script and we took turns reading the parts we had performed on stage. I could feel the excitement around the table. As each person read, I watched the raptured faces of the others. There was joy in their eyes, and in mine, tears.

We're going to do it, Ms J. Not the whole play, of course. But a few of the best skits. The ones we've done before. The ones we're most familiar with. It'll be fantastic. We'll be fantastic.

Gosh, it's wonderful to have friends! I spent the evening basking in the glow of their smiles and reveling in the sound of their laughter. They like me, Ms J. They enjoy my company. We have fun together. We are actors and so we're quite animated at times. Quite funny. I'm grinning now, as I think of them.

Bob. Leigh Ann. Christine. Thank you so much for the Light you bring to my Life. I love you all. You know?

Hey Canada! Think you know yer country? Take the test below. 

Calling All Canadians!

Hey. How's it goin', eh? I found this test today too.
You might wanna check it oat if ya think yer a hardcore Canadian.

"GO LEAFS, GO!!"
"Bite me!"
"Frig off, eh?"

The Canadian Test.

I'm 100% Canadian, eh? Yeah. Even got a friggin' Maple leaf tattoo!

A Silly Distraction

I'm tired today, Ms J. And I'm freezing in my Mimico maison. The price of fuel oil has jumped yet again and last year, it cost a pound and a crown to heat this place. About $300. per month from December to April. I only just moved here in December of last year. I have vowed to keep the furnace off as long as I can. Or til I freeze in the bathtub.

I found this a while ago on someone's blog. I can't remember who's, though. Anyway, I stole it and now present it to you for your enjoyment.

"The Slut Test" It turns out I'm 69% slut. 69. That was my score. Honestly!

Like a Bad Dream

What an evening I had last night!

I was heading off to Caledon for our regular Tuesday night rehearsal and as usual, I was late. I work until 7:15 and the rehearsal starts at 7:30. It's a forty-five minute drive from Mimico to Caledon. I was in a hurry.

At the foot of the Caledon mountain, I noticed a driver had pulled his car off to the side of the dark highway. His emergency flashers were blinking bright red.

"I wonder what's wrong with him?" I thought as I approached at 90 kph. "Helluva time for a flat tire."

As I passed him, I turned my head to see what the problem was, and when I looked back, there was one of these on the highway directly in front of my car. It was just standing there, broadside, slowly shaking its antlered head and stomping its front foot.

I swerved quickly, but I was too late. The front right corner of my car struck the animal's hind quarter, spinning him around and sending his head and shoulders down toward my right front tire.

"Son of a bitch!" I cursed as I felt the steering wheel jerk nearly out of my hands. The thud and crunch was a sound I won't soon forget. My heart was racing as I pulled over onto the graveled shoulder of the four-lane highway.

"Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch," I kept repeating, as though I might find some comfort in curse words. I got out of my car and cautiously peered around the front.

"Good," I said aloud. "No blood."

But I was quite certain the deer was dead. I walked back on the shoulder of the road toward the scene of the accident. Another vehicle was approaching and I watched as its driver changed lanes to avoid the creature lying broken and motionless on the pavement. I shivered violently there in the blackness of the Caledon countryside and took a few deep breaths to try to clear my head. Turning my back to the headlights, I looked up into the inky sky. A sprinkling of stars offered some reassurance that all would somehow be well.

"OK," I said aloud. "What should I do now? Think, Dale. Think."

My thoughts came to me in dis-jointed fragments.
My friends were waiting for me at the theatre in Caledon.
They might be worried if I don't get there soon.
My car doesn't seem to be damaged very badly.
I wonder if the steering is alright.
I hope the deer is dead and not suffering there.
I should go and check.
What if another driver hits the deer and loses control and crashes?
I wish I had a cell phone.

And this thought, Ms J. I hated this thought, but it kept coming back to me: I've taken the Life of that beautiful creature. Dear God! What if it had been a person there instead of a deer?

I climbed back into the familiar warmth of the car and performed a simple kind of meditative exercise. Fall still. Relax the muscles. Focus on the breathing. Quiet the mind. A few more cars whizzed past and I watched their tail lights as they slowly climbed the great hill ahead. In my head, a plan began to formulate.

I carefully pulled the car back onto the highway and gently accelerated. There was the unmistakable sound of squealing tires, Ms J. And the steering wheel was not centred even though the car was pointed straight ahead. I knew the front wheels had been knocked out of alignment and were now sliding as much as rolling. The car was not safe to drive home.

A bright street lamp stood at the corner of a nearby sideroad so I parked the car under it so I could better see any damage. I had just stopped again when another vehicle pulled slowly past and stopped in front. The driver stepped out and smiled.

"He got you too, did he?"

"Well, yeah," I answered. "He was right in the middle of the road. I killed him."

"Well, he deserved what he got. The crazy bastard ran right into the side of my car. I was driving along and I heard a loud noise beside me and when I turned my head to look out the window, there was a huge deer face bouncing off the glass! Look at the damage he caused."

I got out of my car again and pulled my jacket on to ward off the chill. We walked to the man's car and I was astounded at the amount of damage! The entire side of his car was scratched and dented.

The man laughed and turned his palms upward.

"Can you believe it?" he said. "It's a rental car. Brand new. I just picked it up an hour ago."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`~!

Yes, dear Ms J. It could have been worse. Much worse. People have been killed in collisions with deer. Two or three hundred pounds of animal crashing through the windshield at 90 kpm can cause a lot of damage.

Sigh ....

I'm alright. The car will be repaired. My theatre friends were so sympathetic and so understanding. Everyone I've dealt with today has been just wonderful. All is well. All is well.

And once again, I give thanks.

Getting Old(er)

Older. Not old, no. But older. That sounds so much nicer, doesn't it? Not so frightening. But yes, Ms Journal, I'm getting older. My back gets sore more frequently. I have to leave the warmth of my bed in the wee hours to empty my bladder. And my eyes are growing weak. Weaker. Weekly.

Early last winter, I offered a partial surrender to the aging process when I visited the local Shoppers Drug Mart and purchased a pair of "reading glasses." Cheaters, I called them. I kept them in a non-descript, hard-shell case and surreptitiously fixed them to my face to hide once in a while behind a magazine. I hardly ever wore them, preferring instead to crane my neck back and stretch my arm out full length to read a page of print or to view a photograph. Eventually, it became necessary to wear my "cheaters" to work at the computer. I kept a pair in the office here, and another pair downstairs in the kitchen. I needed them to read recipes, etc. About three months ago, I began wearing them full time.

Now, my cheaters don't seem to help as much as they used to. I need something stronger.

Today, I called an optometrist and made an appointment. I would have preferred to see an optimist. An optimist would surely offer me a more cheerful prognosis.

"Your eyes are fine, Dale. You're just a little over-tired today. I think you'll find that as you age, your vision will actually improve."

But there were no optimists in the phone book. None that specialize in eye care, anyway. Specialize. Specialise? Special eyes.

Eye have an appointment tomorrow afternoon. Eye'm a bit nervous as eye've never had an eye exam before. Wish me luck. Eye'll tell you all about it tomorrow.

Here's lookin' at you, kid. And seeing you!

What's A Family?

I must say, Ms J, this has been the best Thanksgiving I've had in ... well, ever! And I didn't see my family at all. Now don't misunderstand me. I love my family. I was invited to Mum and Dad's to take supper with them and a few assorted family members, but Mum had her turkey dinner on Saturday. That was the night of my date with Carol. I didn't want to break my date. Anyway, my brother was planning to be elsewhere and so were two of my four sisters. So it was destined to be a much diminished affair, compared to years past.

I had two delicious dinners, though - one on Sunday and another today. This year, Thanksgiving was shared with friends.

I drove over to Christine's house this afternoon and together we went to the home of a dear friend, Victoria. Victoria is an older lady, mother to seven grown children, all with red hair. Leigh Ann is one of them. She's a twin. I first met Leigh Ann in a play we did together with a local theatre group about three years ago. I met Christine the same way. I'm blessed to count these beautiful souls among my closest friends.

Victoria's home was soon filled with happy guests and the mouth-watering aroma of turkey and dressing and other culinary delights wafted from the cozy-warm kitchen. At first, I was glad Christine was with me. Leigh Ann and her mum were the only ones I really knew. But I'm a pretty gregarious guy (nowadays, post Donna) and I introduced Christine and myself and soon felt at home.

There were perhaps thirty people in that house: nephews and in-laws and an aunt and great-aunt who'd come all the way from California. And of course, there were Leigh Ann's siblings: Ron, Rob, Randy, Laura Lynn (her twin), Melissa, and Miranda, the youngest. All with boyfriends, husbands, wives, children. Gosh, there was quite a crowd. How honoured I felt to be part of their family celebration!

It was about 8:00 when Christine quietly asked if we could go home.

"I've got to prepare a presentation for work tomorrow, Daley."

"OK, Steenie," I said. "Let's go round and say our good-byes."

So we did. I gave Victoria and Leigh Ann warm hugs and told them both how pleased I was to be included. Christine did too. I really felt welcome in that home tonight. Like family. Good food. Good friends. The Germans have a word to describe that atmosphere. Gemuetlichkeit. There is no direct translation, but it means comfortable, cozy, warm, friendly-like.

I dropped Christine off at her home and hugged her good-bye and I smiled nearly all the way home. It's been an absolutely delightful Thanksgiving weekend, Ms J. Could it be that my "family" is much larger than I thought?

"Thanks" Giving

Just got home from Orangeville. I am still stuffed full of turkey and dressing, sweet potatoes, potatoes, corn, and cranberries. We even had pumpkin pie for dessert. Dinner was delicious and the company was brilliant, as always. Jenn has two kids, Julia and Jake. They are, I believe, twelve and seven respectively. Good kids, both. Well-behaved. Nice to be around. Jenn and her partner, Jane are doing a good job of parenting them. Two mums. I still find that a bit odd. But strange or not, there is Love in that home. I can see it. I feel it when I'm there.

As I drove home, I thought of my friendship with Jennefer and how knowing Jenn and her family has improved my Life. I felt grateful for that. I feel grateful for all my friends. There was a time, back in the Donna daze, 1994 - 2000, when I had very few friends. Truly, the only "friends" I had were drug friends. They were always around when we were using or needing speed or ecstasy, and always seemed to run out when the drugs did. I am grateful I was able to leave that Life behind.

I turned off the CD player as I crested the great hill they call the Caledon mountain. I looked southward toward the city of Brampton and further east, toward the sprawling metropolis that is Toronto, and marveled again at the millions of sparkling lights below me. I felt grateful then for that brilliant spectacle, and for the eyes with which to see it. I felt grateful too, for my home down there in Mimico. Its walls protect me from winter's biting winds and its roof covers me to keep out the rain and snow.

Suddenly then, I developed a whole-hearted, full-body, conscious sort of gratefulness. An attitude of gratitude!

"It's Thanksgiving," I said aloud. "And I'm so thankful for all I've been given."

I thought of my kids - Daniel and Meagan. Kelly, their mother who loves them as I do. My parents and their continued good health. My brother and sisters, all healthy and happy. A job that pays the bills and puts food on the table.

And in the solitude of my car, in the darkness on Highway 10, I could sense my spirit as it filled. It filled and filled, Ms J, until it overflowed and spilled down my cheeks. I laughed out loud for they were joyous tears that wet my face. How can I ever say thank you enough?

For the harvests of the Spirit, thanks be to God.
For the good we all inherit, thanks be to God.
For the wonders that astound us,
For the Truths that still confound us,
Most of all that Love has found us, thanks be to God.

Hymn "For the Fruit of All Creation"
United Church of Canada

What a disappointing show! 

Last Night

My date with Carol was OK, I guess. Nothing much to blog about.

I bought a bottle of Australian Chardonnay and drove over to her place around 5:30. She lives in a condo nearby, on the 24th floor, overlooking the marina and yacht club. It's a fabulous view! The other windows look out over the city to the north and west. I could see Willowbrook, the rail yard where I report for work early each morning. While the vistas are breath-taking, the view inside is pretty nice too. Carol has a gorgeous home.

We chatted and then sat and enjoyed a supper of rice, veggie stir-fry and succulent pork chops baked in a mixture of herbs and white wine. Very nice! Before we knew it, it was time to rush off to the theatre. The play we saw was called "No Sex Please, We're British", a comedy I had performed with Jenn, in Caledon last January. We had great fun with it and won a few awards. Audiences loved it. We even set new box office records. My heart was racing and filled with joyful memories as Carol and I waited for the curtain to open.

But what a disappointment! This version wasn't nearly as good as the one we'd done. The characters seemed rather flat. Two-dimensional. Their timing was off. And the guy who played Brian Runnicles (Brian was my role in Caledon) was dreadful! He tried so hard to affect an English accent but I'm afraid it wasn't very credible. In fact, much of what he said was lost because the audience couldn't understand him. How unfortunate!

After the show, we went back to Carol's place. I was feeling tired, Ms J. I could hardly keep my eyes open! She invited up for a cuppa and I went but I didn't stay long. We shared some chamomile and some quiet talk and at midnight I confessed my utter fatigue and moved to excuse myself.

"I want to get up early for church tomorrow, Carol," I told her.

"OK, Dale," she said. "I'm going to visit my son at his home near Peterborough. I'll be up early as well. But I'll be home again on Tuesday. I'll contact you then, OK?"

I stood there awkwardly in her foyer and stared into her blue eyes. I saw sincerity. We laughed and hugged then, and I stole a quick kiss.

"Safe journey tomorrow, Carol," I told her.

I put my palms together, as is my habit, and backed toward the door.

"Happy Thanksgiving," I smiled.

"Yeah. You too."

I was glad to get home and fall into bed.

So that's it, Ms J. That was my second "date" with Carol. It seems she's moving rather slowly compared to some women I've dated. That's alright, though. I'm not in a great hurry to begin a new relationship, really. I'm happy to get to know her and develop a friendship. If it becomes more than that one day, so be it.

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

My friends in Orangeville have invited me to enjoy a turkey dinner with them this afternoon, so I'd better get going. Jennefer, besides being a good friend, is a VERY good cook. Tomorrow, I've been invited to join more friends for another grand Thanksgiving dinner. I'll probably gain ten pounds this holiday weekend!

Looking Up

Things are looking up. Getting better. Improving. My back is slightly better. Carol told me about some non-prescription drugs (Robax Platinum) that have been helpful in reducing the severity and frequency of muscle spasms. The head cold has yet to fully materialize and remains nothing more than a slightly sore throat, with the occasional sneeze. My mood is somewhat elevated. Things are "looking up."

The rehearsal last night was ... well, it wasn't quite fun, but it wasn't the horrible misery I had expected. We rehearsed all of the second act, which is even more frenetic that the first. Larry helped out by standing in for the absent young Robin Cowan, who joined the cast three weeks into the production schedule and now must take time off. Too bad Larry couldn't play the part of Gavin. He's certainly more familiar with it than Robin is.

There was a point in the rehearsal last night where things suddenly began to gel a bit for me. The play began at last to make sense in a chronological way. A bit, anyway. And I felt a sort of relief at my slight glimmer of understanding. There's a light at the end of the long, dark tunnel. Dear God, I hope it's not another train.

Kelly called a while ago. She's my ex, remember? Ex #1. Dan and Meagan's mum. She's fed up with The Boy. She couldn't be more specific. She's just "fed up". He still has no job. He's still behaving like a truculent teenager, and now Kelly no longer receives child support payments for him. She signed a paper. I mailed it to the Family Responsibility Office.

"If you can't bear it another minute," I told her, "send him packing."

"Do you want him to live with you, Dale? Do you feel like trying again?"

"No. Not really, Kel'," I said. "But if you're considering bludgeoning him in his sleep, I'll take him to avoid ruining the bed linen."

"Thanks," she said. "I'll let you know."

That was a couple of hours ago. I haven't heard back from her. Keep your fingers crossed.

MF June 2003

MF June 2003
Originally uploaded by The Mimico Muser.

Here's something new. I've discovered a site called Flickr.com where you can store pictures and post them from there, directly to your blog. So here's my first attempt.

Another day, another mood

I'm not healthy today. I'm sick in body, mind and spirit. Most of the day, I've spent eating junk food in a futile attempt to feel better. My back is sore. Again. I don't know why this time. I did nothing to injure myself, but the muscle that runs parallel to my spine (on the left side) is in spasm. While the pain is not relentless, there are times, frequently, when I move a certain way, that the pain is sharp and sudden. And completely debilitating. It hurts like hell. It makes me angry.

I've got the beginnings of a nasty head cold as well. It started off as a scratchy throat and mild headache on Tuesday, and it's slowly gotten worse despite my best efforts to get extra rest and drink lots of water. When I cough, it hurts my back. When I sneeze, I cry out with the pain.

I don't have time for this foolishness right now. I have a play to learn, friends to visit, work to do. I've been looking forward to my date with Carol for two weeks! This is soooooo inconvenient.

Sigh. Ow! (Yeah, it hurts to take a deep breath, Ms J.)

And this play. This bloody play. It's a total bleeding mess. We've spent three weeks just learning how and where to move on stage. We open in less than a month and none of us has the slightest clue about what's going on. I know, I know. I say this every time I start a new play. It all falls together at the last minute. But I STILL haven't learned to relax totally and trust in the process, in the Universe. In God. I just feel so discouraged right now.

I didn't go to work this afternoon. I thought it best that I stay home and rest. Oh well, I thought. At least I'll be on time at rehearsal tonight. But you know what my next thought was? "I don't even want to go."

And that thought scares me.

Sigh ... OWWW! #$&%**!!!!!!!!

With New Eyes

I had coffee with Carol this morning. We met at a little neighbourhood cafe called Rocket Fuel. It was quite nice, actually. The meeting and the coffee. Carol was curious about the spiritual retreat I attended last weekend. I told her all about it, and she said she'd like to go there herself perhaps one day. With me, of course.

You know, Ms Journal, the more I see of this woman, the better I like her. We had a lovely visit and the conversation never seemed strained at all. I felt quite at ease with her and she seemed to feel the same. We were together nearly three hours! She got a parking ticket. $20. A bit of a bummer, that. I managed somehow to avoid a ticket, although I don't know how, really. My car was right across the street from hers.

I'm looking forward to dinner and the theatre on Saturday! Life is good!

Summer's last rose 

News. Rarely new.

... and usually bad.

I woke this morning thinking of news items I'd seen in recent blogs:

• Jenn's story about the man who was beheaded and videotaped.
• Terri's post about the Brit, caged and tortured in the Middle East (?)
• Gemmak's bit about STD's among our young people.
• That horrible thing in Russia where school children were killed.
• And of course, George Bush's ongoing campaign of death, mayhem and dismemberment in Iraq.

I quit reading the newspaper about four years ago. I had just been expelled from a marriage and my heart was shattered. I really felt then that I couldn't bear to read about any more sadness, so I stopped looking at the newspaper. I don't watch television news either. And I rarely listen to the radio, prefering instead my collection of CD's. If there's something really cataclysmic going on - that is, if it's going to affect me personally or those I love - I'm certain someone will let me know. Otherwise, I'd rather remain ignorant.

"This is the information age," I'm told. "You have to stay current or you'll be left behind."

Then leave me. Go on without me. I'll be back here, sitting quietly on the grass under a tree in the park, watching the children play and wishing they'd invite me to join them.

I see newspapers every morning left on the train. The other guys all scramble to recover the sports section or the front page and squabble over who found it first or offer to trade one paper for another. I shake my head bemusedly.

I'm so tired of reading about all the pain and suffering in the world. I don't want to hear about it. Ignorance is indeed, bliss. I've made my choice. And I choose bliss.

It's not even "news" for goodness sake. It's the same stories, endlessly repeated. The names and locations change daily, but the stories are essentially the same.

A while back, I read "Walden" by H.D. Thoreau. Although it was written in the 19th century, it remains a classic because the issues he describes are still relevant. Here's what Henry David Thoreau had to say on the topic of newspapers:

And I am sure that I never read any memorable news in a newspaper. If we read of one man robbed, or murdered, or killed by accident, or one house burned, or one vessel wrecked, or one steamboat blown up, or one cow run over on the Western Railroad, or one mad dog killed, or one lot of grasshoppers in the winter—we never need read of another. One is enough. If you are acquainted with the principle, what do you care for a myriad instances and applications? To a philosopher all news, as it is called, is gossip, and they who edit and read it are old women over their tea. Yet not a few are greedy after this gossip.

News junkies. Even back then.

No, thank you, Ms Journal. I know there's suffering in this world. Another wife beaten by her husband. Another child left alone while its mother goes off in search of drugs. More communities destroyed by bombs, or by natural disasters. I know people are hurting, starving, dying. I'll do what I can to help. But I don't need to be reminded of it daily.

Trespassers!

It was 6:00 when I woke this morning. Stanley had to "spend a penny." I just had to pee. It was still dark outside and rain was falling softly. Sweet rain. I was glad to hear it, Ms J. It's been very dry here lately, and although I do enjoy the sunshine and azure skies, the earth was thirsty and getting desperate for a drink.

Suddenly, I heard a rattling and scratching outside followed by a loud bang. Then more rattling, and another bang. And another. Someone was throwing stones onto the steel roof of the shed in the back yard. I moved around the bed in the darkness and found the string by the window to open the Venetian blind. I was shocked, Ms J. And a little bit frightened. What kind of moron would be out ...? I pulled the string and raised the blind.

There were two grey squirrels scurrying about, high in the leafy branches of the Black Walnut tree next door. Their aerial acrobatics were shaking the limbs and forcing the stately old tree to loosen its hold on its ripening fruit and send it down to clatter onto the roof of my shed. A movement on the grass below my window caught my eye and I watched as another squirrel darted about frantically, trying to decide which of the walnuts he wanted. After considerable animated deliberation, the creature finally grabbed one of the green, golfball-sized nuts and disappeared under the fence ... hotly pursued by the first two, who had descended the tree and raced to the ground, presumably to guard their booty.

My word, Ms J! I smiled to think I might have slept and missed the entire show! Isn't it amazing what goes on right under our noses if only we're awake enough to see it?

This Week

I haven't written much this week. To tell you the Truth, Ms J, I really haven't felt much like writing. The weather has been so gorgeous, and there always seems to be something to do outdoors. Today, I swept the driveway, watered the flowers, cleaned up the flower beds. I went for a nice, long bicycle ride and when I got home again, I pulled a bushel or two of weeds.

Hmmm.. That's not a metric measurement. Bushels. Do we still measure things in bushels? Two bushels make a peck. That would be a lot of pickled peppers, wouldn't it? I wonder what the metric equivalent of a bushel is? Anybody know? Anybody care?

I have a rose bush that didn't bloom the whole bloomin' summer, but now it's gorgeous! I took a few photos and maybe I'll post one when I get the film developed. No, I do not have a digital camera. One day, perhaps. But for now, I squander most of my money on mortgage payments and groceries. And gasoline.

Driving back and forth to Caledon thrice weekly is expensive these days. I filled the tank on the way home from rehearsal last night. $42.

"Blimey!" As Stanley would say.

It takes about a tank and a half to travel to Caledon three times. My Chevy has a thirsty motor. (3.4 cubic litres) My car's getting old though. It's probably nearing retirement age. It was new in 1995. Now it shows almost 250,000 km on the odometer. It needs new tires. Brakes probably soon. And there's something odd about the steering components up front. Funny noises. Vibration in the steering wheel. My brother-in-law's a mechanic. I'll get him to look at it. Good-bye tax refund.

Right then. Off I go to work. I'm off to Acton afterward to pick up my Meagan. She'll be spending the weekend here. Dan declined my invitation to join us.

"I've got plans," he said. I'm sure he plans to sit and watch television, just as he does every day.

But we're all going out to dinner together first, (the kids and I) and then I'll drop The Boy back home and carry on back to Mimico.

Salut!