Sunday Morning.

Peaceful. Serene. Coffee in a cup. Tepid. And the boy still sleeps.

I love Sunday mornings, Ms J. I get up early, just to enjoy a few hours of solitude. The sun is shining here in Mimico and the world outside my window looks clean and white, like cotton bedsheets fresh from the clothes line. I think I'll walk to church this morning.

Friday morning was good at work because I received some happy news: Neil will be off on vacation beginning Monday. Tomorrow. Only for a week, mind you, but it'll be a vacation for both of us. When he told me, I could scarcely contain my glee. It was with great effort and self-control that I remained seated. I wanted to jump up and do an exuberant "happy dance" in the cab of the locomotive!

Friday afternoon was enjoyable, too. I didn't go to work. Girl Alex dropped over for a visit and to do her laundry. We shared some tea and cookies and chatted like old friends. G. A. is rehearsing now for a new play at school. She has a lead role. It's a period piece with elaborate costumes and set. "The Crucible" is set in 17th century New England. I'm looking forward to seeing my young friend on stage again.

I drove her home around noon and then went to meet Jennefer for lunch. We had a lovely meal of chicken and vegetables and enjoyed some brilliant conversation. I felt nervous and anxious there at first and my behaviour was a bit off. Odd, maybe. I couldn't seem to relax. I shared my feelings with Jenn and she reached across the table and covered my hands with hers. Her smile told me she accepted me just as I was. And I began to calm down. Thanks, Jenn.

While Jenn and I were lunching, Dan was out with Erin and Tara, his step-sisters. The girls are in their early twenties, the daughters of Scott, Kelly's current but estranged husband. They called Dan on Thursday and invited him out. It was nice that they wanted to treat him and I was glad he didn't have to stay here alone while I was out with Jenn.

At home again, I made a nice dinner for us. The lovely Miss Christine was coming for dinner. She and I had tickets to see a concert featuring the music of Africa. Christine paid. It was delightfully uplifting, and I thought many times of Dan. I know he would have enjoyed it.

I rose early on Saturday morning to bake another apple pie. I baked a pie last weekend, Ms J, for Dad's birthday supper, but the weather prevented us from making the trip to Mt. Forest. Remember? Yes, we were forced in the end to consume the pie ourselves. Shame, really.

Anyway, I baked the pie and roused The Boy and after a McDonald's breakfast of uncongealed grease and chemical preservatives (gosh, it was delicious!!) we set out to collect Meagan and then pointed the car northwest to visit my dear ol' dad and mum. We had a lovely time there and I took a few photos. A few times, I wondered if this might be Dad's last birthday celebration. But of course, I kept my thoughts to myself.

It was 9:00 when we left Mt. Forest. We dropped Scout at her mum's place in Acton. I didn't go in the house there. I can't stand going in that house. I feel so uncomfortable and unwelcome there. I think it bothers Meagan a bit, but she'll have to deal with it for now. No apologies.

That's about it, Ms Journal.

Oh, one more little note: We might go on strike next week. Or the week after. Maybe tomorrow morning. Or maybe we'll be locked out. Or not. It's very stressful to be kept so completely uninformed about something as vital as our jobs, but our union doesn't seem interested in letting us know how negotiations are proceeding, if at all.

Still Hating My Job

Sigh ...

I was talking to myself in the car as I drove home this evening. "I'm not happy at work these days and I'm not content and relaxed at home either. I go to work to get away from home and I go home to escape work. My Life has become stressful and unpredictable. I feel anxious and scared all the time. This sucks."

My behaviour at work this morning was shameful. I arrived in a foul mood, unhappy about having to spend the morning with Neil. Dan's been creating websites that discuss drugs and how to make and use them. And it's really cold outside. Just everything, you know? My temper flares and surprises even me.

Little Mo Carson approached me outside this morning as I strode from the parking lot toward the office. The snow crunched loudly under my work boots, and my hands, balled into tight fists, were stuffed deep in my pockets. I had an angry sort of "get-the-hell-out-of-my-way" look on my face.

"Hi Dale," she said, hurrying alongside. "Got a minute?"

I shook my head. "Not now please, Mo. I'm not feeling very friendly at the moment."

Maureen is an engineer like me. She's really nice. And she certainly understands how it feels when Life hurts. Her brother died a few years ago. Suicide. It hit Mo hard and she was off work a long time. I've told her a little of what's going on here and she's been sympathetic.

"It won't take long, Dale. Please. Stop for a second."

I stopped and turned to face her.

"What is it, Mo?" I asked.

She looked up at me and I watched as her breath left her mouth in steamy clouds creating a tiny patch of white frost in her brown hair.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

I closed my eyes for a moment before answering.

"Yes."

I meant no, Ms J. But I said yes.

"I thought I should warn you. You've got a rider with you this morning. A supervisor. Efficiency test. Have you got all your books and papers with you? Is your stuff all current and up to date?"

I wouldn't have thought it possible, but my heart sank. I had nothing. I had none of the required papers and forms and permits. No rule card. No medical card. No timetable or rule book. All I had with me was a black leather case which presumably held all of that stuff, but did in fact contain only a few packets of earplugs, some frozen chewing gum, and a small pillow, so I could nap on the way to Hamilton.

Now a supervisor was going to ask to see my papers. I was screwed! Under the new leadership, CN Rail management has become a cruel tyrant who punishes employees swiftly and severely for failure to obey the rules.

"Who, Mo?" I asked. "Who's riding with us?"

She told me and I cursed. It was a woman. A new, inexperienced supervisor, who happened to be a woman. A young woman.

You can hate me for saying this, Ms Journal, but the male chauvinist part of me, still hopelessly mired in the 1960's, REALLY doesn't like having a female for a boss. I don't like bosses of any kind, really. But a woman. And a woman who has no idea how to do my job, yet has the authority to discipline me for not doing it correctly.

I thought again of Neil's smirking face and self-righteous attitude, and a wave of nausea crested somewhere just above my sternum before receding back into my gut.

"I'm already dealing with one useless fuckwit, Mo," I said. "You know who I'm talking about."

Her eyes softened and she smiled sadly.

"I know, Dale. And I'm sorry. But this morning, you'll have two useless fuckwits. So make sure you've got all your stuff and make sure you do everything by the book."

"OK, Mo," I said. "Thanks for the heads-up."

I walked into the bright office, crowded with men, mostly. The railroad is still predominantly male-oriented. Traditionally, it's been a place for men. We could always curse and spit and scratch our balls if we wanted. We could tell off-colour jokes and piss outdoors if we wanted. But not now. Now there are a few women on the property. A few women; fewer ladies. Some of them are supervisors.

I looked around and found a bright orange safety vest and a pair of equally stupid-looking and unnecessary bug-eyed safety glasses: Required safetywear now, under the new regime.

Someone noticed my scowl and commented loud enough for everyone to hear.

"What's your problem, Doc? Why the long face?"

Someone else answered the question. It seemed everyone had heard.

"Efficiency test this morning. Are you getting your efficiency tested?"

Now everyone was noticing me. I felt angry and frightened and self-conscious. And when I opened my mouth, this came out:

"I'm getting my patience tested by a fucking bitch, that's what I'm getting."

It was so loud, it frightened even me. The room was suddenly silent.

"I beg your pardon?!!"

It was a woman's voice, Ms J. Another wave of nausea started moving upstream. I tried to remain calm and act cool as I headed for the door. The room erupted in laughter and I swallowed hard to keep the billious tide from rising further.

Outside again, I walked briskly through the yard out to the train. I inhaled deeply though my nose and felt my nose hairs freezing momentarily and sticking together. It was a familiar sensation and somehow comforting. My mind continued to whirl and gyrate.

"Who was that? Who said 'I beg your pardon?' Was it the supervisor who had come to test me? Oh Lord! Why did I say that? Why did I blurt it out like that? What if they suspend me? Or fire me?"

I waited an hour until we arrived at the Hamilton train station. I did not nap on the train as I have in the past. I could not. I was filled with more worry than ever now. No papers. No documents. A pillow in my work bag. And conduct unbecoming an employee. I thought of Dan. I thought of Meagan. How would I tell them I was fired? What would I do now? The ghastly spectres of Dread and Despair swirled about me, touching, teasing, torturing. It was horrible, Ms J! Horrible!

In Hamilton at last, I spoke with my conductor who confirmed that the supervisor had preceded me to the train. It couldn't have been her voice I heard in the office. I began, incrementally, to relax.

In the coffee shop, I sat, sipping from my mug, and watching the supervisor as she chatted amiably with Neil and the brakeman. Once in a while, she glanced my way and I smiled and nodded agreeably. She seemed nice enough. Innocuous, even. Young. Thirty, maybe. She was quite attractive, actually. She wore braces on her teeth and her manner of speaking was not unlike my daughter's. Her speech was littered with the word "like."

As it turned out, this young woman was no threat at all. She rode with us on the locomotive and Neil dazzled her with his horseshit all the way back to Toronto. Neil held her rapt attention so that she never even asked to see my papers. Truly, she seemed quite thrilled to be riding up in the locomotive.

"Try to get it up to eighty," she urged me, pointing excitedly to the speedometer. "I've never gone, like, eighty on a train before."

She was new. Naive. Still nice. She hadn't yet been forced to make tough decisions that would affect a man's livelihood. Her smile was benign.

This was a wake-up call, Ms Journal. I had better get my books and papers in order and I'd better start carrying them in my grip. Must I remove the pillow, forgo the nap? I should, probably. But I may not. I mean, if there's room in the leather case for books AND pillow ...

Well ....?

Neil. I've tried to like him, but I can't

I've really been struggling at work lately, Ms Journal. The other engineer on my train is a very difficult person to deal with. His name is Neil, and he's been working my train for seven weeks. Seven long weeks.

Neil is a short man, with a short man's personality. I'm only about 5' 8" tall but Neil is a good three inches shorter. Often, it seems small men feel inferior and so they try to compensate in a number of ways: Some try to build big muscles. Some act silly and play the clown in a group. Others insist on always being right, even to the point of heated confrontation. That's Neil. He is always right. Always doing the right thing. Always on the side of the winner, triumphing over those "losers" whose ideas differ from his. I have spent time with this man every day at work, morning and afternoon, for seven weeks, Ms J. I have yet to hear him say anything positive. He's constantly criticising others in an attempt to look better himself. Nobody likes Neil.

I have tried to get to know him. I've tried having conversations with him, but without exception, it always comes round to Neil puffing up his chest and stating how heroic he is, all the while complaining about someone else. I'm tired of listening to it. Most days now, I don't talk to him at all. It makes for a rather uncomfortable work environment, but it's less stressful somehow, than listening to his criticism and self-agrandisement. Often I've thought of my father's wise advice and wanted to share it with Neil:

"Blowing out someone else's candle won't make yours burn brighter."

But the words would be wasted on someone as closed-minded and as sound asleep as Neil. So I say nothing and try to ignore him. After a while, he stops talking and an awkward silence ensues. Well, I feel awkward. I don't know how Neil feels. In Truth, I don't care how Neil feels.

When he talks, he preaches to his listener. He tells him or her how to behave, and what they should do. He dispenses advice which is nearly always ridiculous. He advocates violence. He laughs at the misfortunes of others. He is neither wise nor intelligent. His language is peppered with vulgarity and malpropisms. And he is always ready for - indeed defending himself against - the possibility that someone might offer a difference of opinion.

"Did you ever think about that?" he asks when making a point. "Eh? You know I'm right, don't you?"

And if one should ever dare to oppose him as I did this morning at the coffee shop in Hamilton:

"Oh come on, Dale. Figure it out. It's not rocket surgery."

Neil is, in my opinion, an idiot. There. I've said it. And I've posted it to the internet for all the world to see. He's a frightened little man with a very little mind. As a Christian, I'm called to love this man. But I don't. And I won't. I don't like him. At all.

This morning I was operating the locomotive, as is my duty. Neil was sitting in the seat across the cab six feet away. We had just passed a signal telling me to slow the train to 15 mph and I was still going 30 mph. I was in violation of a rule. I was speeding, Ms J. I knew I was speeding. I don't know why I didn't slow down, really. I could see the track ahead was clear, but I know, that doesn't change the rule.

"Yer s'posed ta be goin' 15 here. Put the brake on," said Neil in his normal, indelicate way.

I was feeling - I don't know - rebelious I guess. I didn't like Neil telling me what to do, although I knew he was right. I applied the brake, but only a little. The speedometer began to decrease, albeit very slowly. It wasn't good enough to satisfy Neil. He screamed at me.

"PUT THE FUCKIN' BRAKE ON! NOW!"

"It's on, Neil. I just put the brake on. Relax."

"PUT IT ON NOW!!!" he screamed. "YOU ARE SPEEDING! PUT THE FUCKIN' THING ON NOW OR I'LL COME OVER THERE AND DO IT FOR YOU!!!!!!!"

That was it, Ms J. That was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. All the anger and frustration I've experienced these past seven weeks came gushing out all at once like water from a broken dam. I completely lost my mind.

"THE BRAKE IS ON, NEIL! WHY DON'T YOU FUCK RIGHT OFF, YOU ASSHOLE, AND KEEP YOUR STUPID MOUTH SHUT!!"

A shouting match followed that can only be described as childish and disgraceful. I later apologised. Neil did not.

So that's it, Ms J. I don't like the man. I wish he would take another train. If not, then I guess maybe I'll find another train to operate.

Very Stressful morning. Very stressful. I hate going to work nowadays.

Home with carrots and video. "Rebecca. I WILL have her, Dad." 

The Weekend

Well, it wasn't a very exciting weekend, Ms J. My bank account is nearly depleted after spending $588. on my car on Friday, so we didn't have money to do much of anything. We cleared the snow from the driveway and sidewalk. And Meagan cut my hair. She only charges $5. and she does a pretty good job.

On Saturday afternoon, I sent Dan out to buy some carrots for a stew I was making. He was also going to the video store to rent a movie for him and Meagan. I gave him $20. When he still hadn't returned an hour later, I began to worry. I paced the floor like a lion in a cage, alternating between anger and fear. I was afraid he might be looking for drugs. Or lost. Or hurt. Or God knows what.

Just as I was putting my boots on to go searching for him, he returned, rosy-cheeked and half-frozen. I put my boots back in the closet and hung up my coat.

"What took you so long, Dan? I was starting to worry about you," I said and I looked directly into his eyes for signs of drug use or lies. I am always on guard here, Ms J. I wish I could trust him but I cannot risk it just yet. It's still too soon after that dreadful butane incident when he was taken to hospital by the police.

"You were?" he asked incredulously. "Sorry, Dad. I didn't think I was gone that long. It took me a while to decide what movie to rent. And I was chatting with a very pretty girl who works at the Red and White."

He smiled and wiped the melting frost from his moustache.

"She showed me where the carrots were. I knew where they were, but I just wanted to talk to her."

"Did you get her phone number?" I asked. (I wish that he'd give up on girls for a while Ms J. He really needs to grow up a little more and he also needs to rest and get better.)

"I got her name," he answered as though it were a fait accompli. "Rebecca." And he said it again, slowly, savouring it this time. "Rebecca."

"Rebecca, eh? That's a pretty name, isn't it?" (I've seen this girl, Ms J. The Boy's right. She's really cute!) "So what's your plan, Dan-boy," I asked as I watched him remove his warm clothes.

"I dunno. I might build a fire in the fireplace, OK Dad? I'm freakin' froze like a popsicle. I'll probably get Meagan and watch the video I got." He turned toward the stairs and hollered.

"MEAGAN! I GOT A MOVIE! COME DOWN AND W----"

"Daniel!" I said. "She's not deaf! Stop yelling."

I picked his coat up off the floor and handed it to him.

"Please put this where it belongs," I said. "And I meant what's your plan with Rebecca?"

"Oh. Well I'll probably just keep going into the store every few days and bugging the hell out of her. Eventually, she'll break down and go out with me. I WILL have her, Dad."

See what I mean, Ms Journal? Dan has some growing up to do.

Dan clearing the driveway. The snow was light and fluffy.

"Oh dear, Scout. You've taken too much off the top! 

Politically Incorrect. But Funny.

Hey. I've been reading other blogs this morning and I've come across this. It's a TV ad for VW Polo. It's a European ad, possibly fake. Have a look.

http://www.rooftopreport.com/rooftopreport/vw_20_b3.mov

Those 3 Things (finally)

3 Names You Go By:

Dale
Doc (at work - Dale Robert - my initials are DR.)
Dad

3 Screen Names You Have:

I have uninstalled all IM software.

3 Things You Like About Yourself:

My sense of humour
My desire to know myself
My journey toward happiness

3 Things You Hate/Dislike About Yourself:

That it took me THIS LONG to get over IT (thanks Larry. Me too.)
My temper
My ravenous ego

3 Parts Of Your Heritage:

English
Scottish
Ojibway Indian (.0074 percent - but you asked for 3)

3 Things That Scare Me:

My anger
Not being accepted
Thoughts of losing a loved one

3 Of Your Everyday Essentials:

Coffee
Blogging / Emails
Prayer/Meditation

3 Things You Are Wearing Right Now:

Black Jeans
Pullover Sweater
White socks (does that count as two?)

3 Of Your Favourite Bands/Artists (Subject To Change At Any Time):

Beatles
ELO
Van Morrison

3 Of Your Favourite Songs at Present:

That's the Way the World Goes Round - John Prine
Day by Day - Doug and The Slugs
Landslide - Dixie Chicks

3 Things You Want To Try In The Next 12 Months:

Auditioning for a play in Toronto
Take Dan camping (and canoing?) in the wilderness
Doing volunteer work somewhere

3 Things You Want In A Relationship (Love Is A Given):

Honesty
Intimacy (this means much more than sex!)
Laughter

2 Truths And A Lie (No Particular Order To Keep You guessing):

I quit school when I was 18 after winning a language scholarship.
I am not a convincing liar.
I am a lawyer, a doctor and an astronaut.

3 Physical Things About a Love Interest That Appeal To Me:

Teeth
Lips
Breasts

3 Things You Just Can't Do:

Accept Kelly and her lifestyle
Juggle chainsaws while riding a uni-cycle
Spell uni-cycle

3 Of Your Favorite Hobbies:

Blogging
Reading
Taking pictures

3 Things You Want To Do Really Badly Right Now:

Go pee!
Eat breakfast with Dan and Meagan (pancakes!!!)
Finish this silly thing

3 Careers You're Considering:

Father
Brother
Friend
(Right. I've already done those. OK then, I'll try to improve.)

3 Places You Want to Go On Vacation:

Vancouver Island
Great Britain
Australia

3 Kids Names (Either Boy or Girl):

Sarah
Rebecca
Heather

3 Things You Want To Do Before You Die:

Hold my grandchildren
Go into space
Lay down and close my eyes (I don't want to be discovered dead, standing up with my eyes open!)

3 People Who Have To Take This Quiz Now:

I should hope everyone who wants to, has already done it.

Me and my dad. December 18, 2004 

A Tale of Pie and Disappointment

I baked a pie yesterday, Ms J. My first ever. It's an apple pie. Dad loves apple pie and I had planned to take it to him today. A birthday pie, as it were. I called my sister for directions.

"Oh apple pie is pretty easy," Jill said. "Are you going to make the crust or buy one of those frozen ones?"

Hmmm, I thought. Frozen pie crust, eh? That would surely simplify things, wouldn't it?

"Frozen, Jill. Definitely frozen. Yeah. "

I sounded like Dustin Hoffman in "Rainman".

So my sister told me what to buy (Macintosh apples are good for pies) and what to do and in less than an hour, my pie was ready to go in the oven. The phone rang and I ran to answer it. It was June.

"Did you make your pie yet?" she asked.

I said I had.

"Well we're not going to Dad's on Saturday now. The whole thing's been postponed until next weekend."

I felt so disappointed, Ms J. We had planned to go to Mt Forest to spend Saturday with Mum and Dad. Everyone was going. Each of us was bringing something to eat so Mum wouldn't have to cook. I was baking a pie, dammit!

"Why, June?" I asked. "How come it's cancelled?"

My sister corrected me.

"Not cancelled. Postponed. We're doing it next Saturday."

"But why?"

"Haven't you been listening to the weather forecast?" she said. "There's a big storm coming. They predict 20 cm of snow and gusting winds. I already called Mum. She agrees if it's not safe to travel, we should stay home."

"Yeah, but I'll have both kids here with me this weekend. I really wanted to take them both to see Mum and Dad. I've just spent $588. getting my car ready for the trip. I've got two new tires," I said and I could hear myself whinging.

"Well, you can bring the kids next weekend," said June and she was right. There's no point in risking our Lives on snowy country roads. We'll wait until next weekend.

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

After work last night, I picked up Dan and Scout and brought them here to Mimico. When we'd removed our coats and boots, Dan headed immediately for the kitchen where he spied the pie, freshly baked and sitting on the counter.

"What's this, Dad? A pie of some sort?" He bent down and smelled it. "Could it be apple, by any chance? Did YOU bake this apple pie, Dad? Do you think we should test it to make sure it's safe? Do you think we should sample a small or possibly large piece? With some cheese? Hmmmm?"

Gosh that boy makes me laugh sometimes. And in Truth, I was keen to taste it as well. I cut the pie and we each had a slice. It was nothing short of delicious.

A pie, Ms Journal! I baked a pie all by myself! I'm so proud!!

Helen

I have a lot of sisters, Ms J. Four, actually. Only two of them read my blog. Helen has been visiting unannounced for a few months now. June is a relative new comer. Ha! Relative. Get it?

Anyway, Helen emailed me recently to share a little story. She's a registered nurse. She's kind and gentle and compassionate. She's beautiful. My sister lives a hundred miles away and I don't see her very often. But I know she's there for me. I know she reads my silly posts here and thinks of me. And yes, I'll bet she prays for me. Dan, too.

I asked Helen's permission to post her letter. She agreed so here it is:

Hi Dale,

I read your site regularly and wonder if I could handle all that you handle and come out as sane as you seem to be. What a good job you are doing, and what a good writer you are.

I also read on a reg. basis, a site written for Cassie ( a 16 yr. old girl who I've had the pleasure of looking after on paediatrics for the last 4 yrs.) Cassie's mom Lorrina writes to update family and friends when she and Cassie are in hosp. (sometimes in isolation for wks. on end) Cassie has cancer, and will not see the end of this yr. most likely. She developed Hodgkin's Lymphoma in 2001, was treated, but never got better and now it has developed into Leukemia.

I went skiing on Tues. "What an awesome day!!!" The sun was shining, the temp. was -25 when I first hit the mountain but warmed up to -15 and I stayed outside skiing and enjoying the colour of the snow, the trees, the sky, and the sound of the boards and skiis on the snow, the sounds of the silence as I rose alone on the lift up through the trees over the brook in the mountain, and thanked and praised God for all of it.

Then.... I skied hard, and freely and enjoyed the wind in my face and the speed and glee of the jumps while catching more air than I probably should have at my age..... But I skied for Cassie that day. I enjoyed it with a passion, with every molecule in my being and with every sense I am fortunate enough to still have. It felt as if somehow Cassie got something from my ski that day, and when I went in to take my boots off, my hands were too cold to manage the task, but a kind man offered to take them off for me and another to get me something warm to drink.

Wow!!! Why?

I thanked them and reflected on the incident as I strode off to my car, bag over one shoulder and skiis over the other.

I thought of this little anecdote.... and thought of you.

Love you Dale....

Helen

Cassie. She's sixteen years old. She may never see seventeen. In my response to Helen's letter, I wrote "My troubles pale in comparison."

Thanks for visiting my blog, Helen. And thanks for sharing your story. Well done!

C-c-c-cold! C-c-c-Car Trouble

It was cold in Mimico this morning. The thermometer wasn't showing much red. It was -26C when I left for work. The car started reluctantly. I was a little late leaving the house and I had to hurry to be on time at work. The engine in my car rattled like a bulldozer on a paved road. I turned the radio on.

" ... and with the wind gusting up to 30 kph, it feels more like -35. Make sure you bundle up this morning folks. It's really ---"

I turned the radio off. Yes, I know it's cold. I don't need to be reminded of it and I don't need to be told a "wind chill factor" and how cold it "feels." It's as cold as a dead whore's heart, to use one of my father's favourite similes.

After work this morning, I returned to my car in the parking lot. This time though, it refused to start. A work mate offered to boost my battery. He had booster cables. T'was a fortunate thing, Ms Journal, as I had none. (Note to self: Find your jumper cables and leave them in the car.) The motor caught immediately, and started without a problem.

Well, nearly. It was making a squealing noise. An awful-sounding squealing noise. Alternator, I thought. $600. Or maybe it was the water pump. That would only cost about $200. I hoped it was something simpler, like a badly worn serpentine belt or maybe a belt tensioner.

I thanked Bob Thibault for his help and sent him on his way. As I walked around the car to get in, I noticed I had a flat tire. Not completely flat, mind you. But nearly.

"Lovely," I muttered. "This is just lovely."

I drove the squealing, rattling, wobbling car slowly to the nearest gas station where I inflated the tire. It took a long time. When air is cold, it becomes more dense and so it requires longer to fill a tire. Trains employ air brakes and we passed a freight train this morning that had been sitting for three hours revving its locomotives in an attempt to build up enough air pressure to release the brakes. It takes a while when the temperature is low and the train is long. This particular train was over fourteen thousand feet long.

But I digress. Sorry. I left the motor running while I pumped up the tire. I was chilled to the bone by the time I was done. The motor screamed like a banshee all the while. Passers-by were looking at me as if I were an idiot who had forgotten to put oil in it.

Inside the garage, the mechanic (His name is Omer. Nice man.) promised to look at the car this morning and effect repairs as required.

"When do you need the car?" he asked.

I told I had to return to work at 3:00 and that I planned a long journey this weekend.

"No problem," he smiled. "I'll call you when I find out what's wrong."

I thanked him and walked home. It was only a ten minute walk but it felt longer. My cheeks and nose were really starting to hurt by the time I got home.

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

Omer just phoned.

"Good news," he said. "And bad."

I braced myself and readied for the worst.

"Nothing wrong with the alternator. And the water pump's fine. You need a new belt, though. That one's nearly done. A belt's about 60 bucks."

"And the bad news?" I asked timidly.

"Those tires are really bad. You need four new ones."

I knew they were worn badly, Ms J. I thought of the accident Meagan and I had last winter because the tires were dangerously worn. It was foolhardy to think I might get through another winter without incident. But I can't afford new tires right now. And we may be going on strike at work next week.

"How 'bout two, Omer? Could I get by with only two new tires?"

"Yup," he said. "I'll put the new ones on the front. You should be OK that way. It'll be better than what you got now."

So I told him to go ahead and do the work. He estimates about $500. plus taxes.

Happy Birthday, Dad!!

Dad’s 83 today. Eighty-three. LXXXIII. No matter how it’s written, it’s still old. Old. Damn!! The years seem to pass so quickly now. I’m sure they pass more quickly for Dad than for me. In his memoirs, As I Recall, Dad wrote, “Life is like a roll of toilet paper: The nearer the end, the faster it goes!” It’s true isn’t it?

Was it really fifty-six years ago that he married Mum? Was it fifty-five years ago that he held his first child? Forty-three years since his last? Has it been twenty-five years since his retirement?

He’s eighty-three years old. That’s eighty-three summers. Eighty-three winters. Eighty-three Christmases.

As I write this, I’m filled with emotion. A lump in my throat. And tears. I wish I could stop time and call an end to these wretched birthdays. I wish I could keep my dad with me forever. But I know one sad day, I’ll get a phone call informing me that he’s gone. Gone. And I can’t bear the thought of living out the rest of my Life without him. Without his counsel, his wisdom, and without feeling his gentleness and his constant Love.

But I’ll be alright. Without him, I mean. Do you know why, Ms. J? I’ll be alright (we’ll all be alright) without him because he’s spent half a century showing us that we’re loved. He’s demonstrated in myriad ways that each of his six children is special to him in our own way and he’s taught us, through patience and kindness, that the world is essentially a good and safe place. Thank you so much for that, Dad.

Yes. I’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine. But oh Lord, how I’ll miss him!

I love you, Dad. I wish you continued health. I wish you happiness. I wish you Love.

Happy Birthday.

By George, I Think I've Got It!

I'm back online, Ms J. While The Boy's away visiting with his mother, I've spent the better part of the last two days trying to find a way to restrict Dan's access to the internet, while still allowing me to use it. Connecting and disconnecting the modem was really getting tiresome. Zone Alarm may be the answer. Zone Alarm Security Suite. It's a software package who's primary function is to act as a firewall, keeping out hackers and other forms of intrusion. But it also allows the user to block access to a number of website "categories":

• Chat room/Instant Messenger
• Alcohol/Tobacco
• Illegal Drugs
• Dating/Personals
• Violence
• Hate/Racism
• Web Communication/Message Boards
• Web Hosting/Personal Web Pages

There are many more. The settings are password protected so he can't simply change them or shut down the programme. He'll still be able to download and listen to music using P2P programmes like LimeWire. Music is a passion of Dan's. Like most teens, he loves his music.

I've also been advised to set up a user account for Dan and another for myself, naming me as "administrator." Cool! I've never been an administrator before. Reminds me of that old Keith Hampshire song from the '70's. "Big Time Operator." Remember that one? Dan's account does not allow him to install or uninstall programmes or to alter general computer settings. I however, as administrator, can do whatever the hell I like. My position is guarded by password. The power, Ms J!! It's intoxicating! Mwa-ha-ha!!!

So I'll leave the modem connected. I must be sure, though, to log off each time to prevent Dan from organizing a cyber-coup. He'll be back on Friday. We'll see how it goes.

Something Different

Kind of. I don't often post things here that aren't my own, but I read this today and it so moved me, I thought I'd share it. I subscribe to MountainWings.com and it was they who sent it. Read it slowly. Savour it.

Midnight Phone Call
===================

We all know what it's like to get that phone call in the middle of the night. This night's call was no different. Jerking up to the ringing summons, I focused on the red illuminated numbers of
my clock. Midnight. Panicky thoughts filled my sleep-dazed mind as I grabbed the receiver.

"Hello?"

My heart pounded; I gripped the phone tighter and eyed my husband, who was now turning to face my side of the bed.

"Mama?" I could hardly hear the whisper over the static. But my thoughts immediately went to my daughter. When the desperate sound of a young crying voice became clearer on the line, I grabbed for my husband and squeezed his wrist.

"Mama, I know it's late, but don't...don't say anything, until I finish. And before you ask, yes, I've been drinking. I nearly ran off the road a few miles back, and..."

I drew in a sharp shallow breath, released my husband and pressed my hand against my forehead. Sleep still fogged my mind, and I attempted to fight back the panic. Something wasn't right.

"And I got so scared. All I could think about was how it would hurt you if a policeman came to your door and said I'd been killed. I want...to come home. I know running away was wrong. I
know you've been worried sick. I should have called you days ago, but I was afraid...afraid..."

Sobs of deep-felt emotion flowed from the receiver and poured into my heart. Immediately I pictured my daughter's face in my mind and my fogged senses seemed to clear. "I think--"

"No! Please let me finish! Please!" she pleaded, not so much in anger but in desperation.

I paused and tried to think of what to say. Before I could go on, she continued, "I'm pregnant, Mama. I know I shouldn't be drinking now...especially now, but I'm scared, Mama. So scared!"

The voice broke again and I bit into my lip, feeling my own eyes fill with moisture. I looked at my husband who sat silently mouthing, "Who is it?"

I shook my head and when I didn't answer, he jumped up and left the room, returning seconds later with the portable phone held to his ear.

She must have heard the click in the line because she continued, "Are you still there? Please don't hang up on me! I need you. I feel so alone."

I clutched the phone and stared at my husband, seeking guidance. "I'm here, I wouldn't hang up," I said.

"I know I should have told you, Mama. But when we talk, you just keep telling me what I should do. You read all those pamphlets on how to talk about sex and all, but all you do is talk. You don't listen to me. You never let me tell you how I feel. It is as if my feelings aren't important. Because you're my mother, you think you have all the answers. But sometimes I don't need answers. I just want someone to listen."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and stared at the how-to-talk-to-your-kids pamphlets scattered on my nightstand. "I'm listening," I whispered.

"You know, back there on the road, after I got the car under control, I started thinking about the baby and taking care of it. Then I saw this phone booth and it was as if I could hear
you preaching about how people shouldn't drink and drive. So I called a taxi. I want to come home."


"That's good, Honey," I said as relief filled my chest. My husband came closer, sat down beside me and laced his fingers through mine. I knew from his touch that he thought I was doing
and saying the right thing.

"But you know, I think I can drive now."

"No!" I snapped. My muscles stiffened, and I tightened the clasp on my husband's hand. "Please, wait for the taxi. Don't hang up on me until the taxi gets there."

"I just want to come home, Mama."

"I know. But do this for your mama. Wait for the taxi, please."

I listened to the silence in fear. When I didn't hear her answer, I bit into my lip and closed my eyes. Somehow I had to stop her from driving.

"There's the taxi, now."

Only when I heard someone in the background asking about a Yellow Cab did I feel my tension easing.

"I'm coming home, Mama." There was a click and the phone went silent.

Moving from the bed with tears forming in my eyes, I walked out into the hall and went to stand in my sixteen-year-old daughter's room. The dark silence hung thick. My husband came from behind, wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on the top of my head.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks. "We have to learn to listen," I said.

He pulled me around to face him. "We'll learn. You'll see." Then he took me into his arms, and I buried my head in his shoulder.

I let him hold me for several moments, then I pulled back and stared back at the bed. He studied me for a second, then asked, "Do you think she'll ever know she dialed the wrong number?"

I looked at our sleeping daughter, then back at him. "Maybe it wasn't such a wrong number."

"Mom, Dad, what are you doing?" The muffled young voice came from under the covers. I walked over to my daughter, who now sat up staring into the darkness.

"We're practicing," I answered.

"Practicing what?" she mumbled and laid back on the mattress, her eyes already closed in slumber.

"Listening," I whispered, and brushed a hand over her cheek.



~by Christie Craig from Chicken Soup for The Mother's Soul 2~

Trusting and Loving.

Monday.

Scott phoned Dan on Saturday. He told Dan he'’d pick him up after work on Monday (today) and take him to Kelly’'s for a few days. This morning, Scott called to say he was having “car trouble” and wouldn'’t be able to fetch Dan until tomorrow. I relayed the message to The Boy when he got up this morning. He was visibly disappointed. He’'d been looking forward to spending a few days with his mum and baby Emily. (As usual, he didn’'t mention Meagan.) He already had his bags packed.

When Dan called Scott to ask about the change of plans, Scott told him he didn'’t have a car with which to fetch him. He’'d lent it to someone and wouldn'’t have it back until tomorrow sometime.

“"Yeah, Scott said he loaned his car to a friend of his and the guy won'’t be bringing it back until tomorrow, Dad,”" Dan explained. “"He'’s not having car trouble. He just doesn'’t have his car at the moment, that'’s all."”

Another promise unfulfilled. Or delayed. I wonder how much longer Dan and Meagan will tolerate lies and empty promises? Why did Scott tell Daniel he’'d pick him up and take him to his mother'’s house, and then lend his car to someone and cancel his plans? I hate disappointing my kids. I know, Ms J, disappointment is inevitable sometimes. It’'s part of Life. But why disappoint when you don'’t have to? Why make promises you can'’t or don'’t intend to keep?

“"Can YOU drive me, Dad?"”

I looked at the clock. It was 1:00. I had to be back at work at 3:15. It takes about 90 minutes to make a return trip to Acton from Mimico. What if there were a traffic snarl? Or inclement weather?

“"No, Dan. We don'’t have time now."”

But he looked so crestfallen. He really wanted to go. He was bored at my house. A change of scenery might do him good.

“"Please, Dad? We have enough time if we go now. I’'m all ready to go. I'’ve got my stuff packed and everything.”" He reached into his pocket and extracted a roll of LifeSavers candy. Butter Rum. My favourite.

“"I'’ll give you this,"” he grinned and popped it into my breast pocket. “"Paid. In advance."”

I love that boy. I’'m a big push-over, I guess. And it WOULD mean I’'d get a few days alone here. I sighed and checked my watch.

“"OK, Dan. Let’'s go."”

So we went. Dan put a backpack and an overnight bag in the car, along with his new guitar.

“"Have you remembered your pills?"” I asked.

“"Got '‘em, Dad. Right here.”" And he patted his faded backpack.

“"And your razor?"”

“"Yup."”

“"Toothbrush?”"

“"Dad! I got everything. Let’'s go. Time is tight."”

We were enroute about ten minutes when Dan remembered something.

“"Ah crap!”" he exclaimed. “"I forgot my smokes."”

Oh dear, I thought sardonically. It'’s a catastrophe. A great, bloody catastrophe.

“"It'’s too late now, Dan. We haven'’t time to go back and get them."”

“"That'’s OK, Dad. I’'ll smoke mum'’s. Or Tim'’s. They smoke Player’s Extra Lights. They'’ll hafta do for now, until I get some of my own."”

Something occurred to him then and he turned to face me in the front seat.

“"I was wondering, Dad, if I might possibly have an advance on my allowance for next week?"”

So you can buy tobacco, Dan? Or drugs from one of your many contacts in Acton? Or maybe Mum will ask you for a loan “until Tim gets his money from the government.” Or until she gets her child support. I shook my head and turned down the volume on the radio. Gosh, I can'’t stand today'’s music. It'’s nothing but noise, devoid of any meaning whatsoever. When I spoke, my voice was firm.

“"No. I gave you twenty dollars on Friday. You bought two CD'’s with it. That was your choice. If you feel you need some money, ask Mum. You said she promised to give you forty dollars. Ask her for it.”"

I knew Kelly would renege on her promise. She almost always does.

“"Alright. I'’ll ask Mum. Or Tim."”

“"Or Gary,"” I suggested. “"Maybe you could ask Gary for some money. If you see him.”"

“"I doubt Gary will be there, Dad. And if he is, I doubt he'’ll give me any money."”

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

I'’ve been drinking wine tonight, Ms Journal. And to tell you the God’'s honest Truth, I'’m getting too drunk to write a good ending for this post.

So anyway, I dropped Dan at his mum'’s place and hurried back to work.

“"If the shit gets too thick there, Dan,”" I told him, “"you call me and I'’ll come and get you. Anytime. Day or night. If you can'’t handle it and you're thinking about getting high, call me. OK?”"

“Don'’t worry, Dad. I'’ll be fine. You can pick me up on Friday when you come to collect Meagan.”"

Trust, Ms J. I’'m trusting my son. I'’m loving him and trusting him. And, believe it or not, missing him.

G'’ night.

Saturday Morning

This week disappeared quickly. The weather’s been remarkable. Thursday saw a high of 17C in Windsor. Windsor is about five hours from Toronto. It’s in the extreme south-western part of the province. The Detroit River forms the official border there between Canada and the U.S. Here in Mimico, the temperature peaked at 15C, still very unusual for mid-January. Environment Canada predicts colder weather this weekend. Much colder. Minus 12C today.

I worry a bit about Dan getting bored here when he’s alone. Idle hands … I discussed this with Marsha, the counselor we saw at LAMP on Wednesday. She said it was a reasonable concern and suggested a few “social/recreational programmes for Dan.

“What do you like to do, Dan?” she asked him.

He said he liked playing hockey. I’ve never seen him play hockey, Ms J. I didn’t know he could even skate. But if he wants to play hockey, I’ll get him some equipm …

Hang on just a minute. Hockey equipment is very expensive. It’s easy to spend five or six hundred dollars to buy a helmet and all the pads. Easy, that is, if you have five or six hundred dollars. OK, so maybe hockey isn’t what he wants right now. He also told Marsha he liked to play guitar. He didn’t own a guitar yet, but I said nothing.

“Anything else?” she asked him.

“Soccer maybe. Or just listening to music. I like listening to music.”

Marsha suggested maybe he’d enjoy doing volunteer work in the area. She said it’s a great way to make friends and meet new people. He didn’t seem keen on the idea, but he hasn’t ruled it out completely. I’ll make some phone calls. We’ll see.

She said she was impressed with the work we’d done in terms of seeing addiction specialists and setting up appointments with a psychiatrist. When she suggested I contact BREAKAWAY, Dan waved his arm.

“Oh, Dad’s already done that. They’re gonna call us back soon with an appointment.”

“It’s clear you guys are committed to working together on this,” she said. And then she smiled at me and said, “Don’t worry. You’re doing all the right things. You’re a good dad.”

It’s good to hear that, Ms Journal. I think it’s time to move forward again. Today, maybe I’ll take Dan for a ride on the streetcar. It would be good for him to start to feel confident using public transit. It would also allow him to go out for a while without me. I'd have some time to myself.

I miss having my own space here, Ms J. I miss spending time alone. This morning, I got out of bed at 5:45 so I could enjoy some quiet time before The Boy gets up.

Last night, as we watched television together, Dan mentioned that he'd been feeling "edgy" all day.

"How do you mean 'edgy', Dan?"

"I dunno, Dad. Just edgy. You know, like edgy. Like I wanna do something but I don't know what."

"Do you feel that way now, son?" I asked.

"Naw, not so much now. But I don't like feeling that way because when I feel edgy, I always feel like getting high."

I remember feeling that way when I was with Donna. And I remember how we dealt with it. I looked at my son closely.

"Are you high now, Dan?"

"No," he laughed. "I'm not high now. I'm just saying that whenever I feel edgy, I think about getting high, that's all. I was thinking about it today. Thinking about it, Dad. That's all I'm saying."

His blue eyes were clear and he seemed "normal", whatever the hell that means.

I asked if he'd been taking his pills as prescribed. He answered yes.

"OK, Dan. And you're feeling alright now are you? Not so edgy anymore?"

"Yeah, I'm OK now. I'm just telling you how I was feeling today."

I nodded my head and breathed deeply.

"Good, Dan. That's good. I'm proud of you for not getting high when you felt like it."

"There's nothing here to get high on anyway."

"Did you look?"

"No."

Maybe I believe my son, Ms Journal. And maybe I don't. It 's an awful thing you know, when you can't trust someone you love. Last Thursday marked three weeks since the butane incident. I think he's been drug-free that long.

Rock and Roll!! 

Guitar!!

Dan got his guitar yesterday. We went downtown to a music shop on Queen St. “Steve’s Music Shop.” I’ve never seen so many musical instruments! I spoke with a salesman.

“Where are your used guitars?” I asked. “Acoustic.”

“Oh they come and go,” was his response.

“Have any come recently?”

“Oh yes.”

This was more difficult than I had anticipated, Ms J. I raised my eyebrows somewhat hopefully, and turned both palms upward.

“And are there any still here, perchance?”

“Used guitars? Naw, they’re gone. They come and go, eh.”

My eyebrows came down and moved toward each other in a show of solidarity. It felt like a frown.

“I see. So you have no used guitars at the moment. Is that correct.”

“Not right now, sir. But prob’ly next week. Late.”

Dan’s constant talk of guitars was wearing me down. Eroding my will, indeed my very sanity. I knew I could not hold out for another week. Besides, I had promised my boy a guitar today. I am not one who breaks promises. That job seems to have fallen to Kelly.

“OK, then,” I said. “Show us your new ones.”

He was happy to oblige. He rubbed his hands together expectantly and led us to a sacred space behind a wooden door. Dozens of guitars of every size and shape hung from the ceiling. Red guitars. Blue Guitars. Ones made of wood and others fashioned from metal. Shiny metal. Chrome, Ms J. Chrome guitars! I was impressed. I looked at Dan. He was unable to contain his glee.

“Holy crap! This place rocks, Dad!”

Yes. So I bought a guitar. A blue one. And an instructional booklet that came with a DVD. “Beginner’s Guitar.”

Guitar: $166.70

Instructional booklet: $20.65

Parking ticket: $30.

Total cost of trip downtown: $217.35

Look on Dan’s face, hug, “I love you Dad. Thanks.”: Priceless!

I’ll let him play around with it for a while on his own. I know he’s not ready for lessons yet. His mind is still too dull from drugs.

FIGHT!!

January 12, 2005

Why does she do that to me? How, after all these years, can she still move me to such rage? Why do I let her?

Kelly called this morning. She called to tell me she’d received a call from the passport office. Dan’s passport was returned to sender. It arrived a month ago at the Acton post office and notice was sent to Kelly to pick it up there. It’s an important document, Ms. J. It was sent via registered mail. But Kelly ignored the notice and the passport was eventually returned to Ottawa. Dan applied for and was approved for a passport. Remember, Ms J? I went with him to collect all the documents required and I helped him fill out the application form. I sat in the passport office with him and waited over an hour to submit the application. I paid $20. for his photo and another $85. for the passport fee. I want him to have that bloody passport! He has no use for it now, but I’ve paid for it and he should have it.

Kelly gave me the phone number of the office that had called. Fine. Thank you. But whenever she phones me, she wants to chat. I don’t want to chat with her. I have nothing to say to her. Nothing nice, anyway. So I listen to her drone on about how she’s cleaning up her Life and how she never uses the internet and how she plans to move further away and attend veterinary school and get a place of her own and not be dependent on anyone …

I pretend to care. I pretend to be interested. I act as though I’m somewhat supportive of her decisions to pull herself up by the bootstraps and get on with her Life. But I know she never will. I’ve heard it all before. Kelly is desperate for Love. She is desperate to gain the support and acceptance of everyone in her Life. Including me and especially her kids. MY kids.

I listened as long as I could, Ms J. And when her lies and empty promises became too much to bear, I simply moved the phone away from my ear for a few seconds and waited for her to complete her verbal bowel movement. It’s an exercise I’ve done hundreds of times before. I suppose I should know by now that when I start behaving that way with her on the telephone, it’s time to say good-bye. But I haven’t yet learned that lesson.

She was telling me about Emily and how she’s able to stand on her own now.

“Scott let go of her hand and she just stood there, wobbling a bit. But she did it. She stood up all by herself.”

Scott is Kelly’s second and current husband, although estranged now for about two years.

“Scott?” I asked. “What was he doing there?”

“Oh he came over to see Emily. He loves her. And he brought gifts for all the kids. Emily and Dan and Meagan. You should see what he got for Meagan.”

I moved the phone away from my face.

“I’m getting a little tired of that guy,” I mumbled quietly.

But she heard me.

“Scott has been good to the kids, Dale. They love him and he loves them.”

I tried to make my point and move the conversation forward.

“So he brought a gift for my daughter, yeah. And?”

Kelly began now to work her magic. She slowly began to circle and creep, sizing up her prey (me) and deciding how best to pounce, where to strike, looking for a tender spot.

“He brought a gift for his step-daughter,” she said.

But I wasn’t ready to quarrel just yet.

“Whatever, yeah. What did he get for her?” I said and I could feel the muscles tighten across my shoulders.

So she told me all about the lovely “vanity” that Scott had bought for Meagan and how happy she was to receive it.

You know, Ms J, I written about Scott before. Many times, actually, in years gone by. I’ve had only good things to say about him. He lived with my kids for ten years. Indeed, he was more of a father figure than I during that time. I saw Dan and Scout every other weekend. Scott saw them every day. I once told him that I was grateful for his help and I thanked him for being kind to my kids.

“How can it be a bad thing to have another person love Dan and Meagan as I do?” I’ve said to anyone who’d listen. And I meant it.

But lately, I’ve been feeling jealous of Scott. I’ve been wishing that he’d just bugger off and disappear forever. I guess I’m seeing him now as just another of the men in Kelly’s harem. Maybe that’s unfair. He is Kelly’s husband. They got married about seven or eight years ago. He lived with Kelly and the kids for ten years. He told me recently, that he is a friend to Kelly.

But I am not, Ms J. I am not Kelly’s friend. She sometimes thinks I am. But I’m not. In an ideal world, I would tell her to get bent. In an ideal world, I would tell her never to contact me again and bid her good-bye and good riddance. But that option is not available to me. We share children. Dan and Meagan love her. It’s no wonder. In Truth, Kelly has acted to keep her kids close to her, dependent upon her. She needs to be needed. It’s a powerful addiction for her, it’s grip no less tenacious than her other addictions: tobacco, cannabis, the internet, sex.

“What do you have against Scott, anyway?” Kelly asked.

“I don’t know, Kelly. I just wish … I just think that …”

I couldn’t get the words out. I wanted to tell her how she’s harming Meagan by bringing a parade of men into her Life and her home. I wanted to tell her that she’s been a needy, desperate, pathetic whore and that I hate her. I wanted to, Ms Journal. SO FUCKING MUCH.

But I couldn’t.

It’s not because I’m a nice guy, you know. It’s not because I could never hurt someone that way or because I feel sorry for Kelly. I’m not such a nice guy. Sometimes, I behave in a disgraceful way. Sometimes, I scream obscenities and hurl insults like sharp javelins.

I couldn’t tell her just how I feel, no holds barred, because she would run crying to Meagan and tell her every hurtful thing I had said. In a move to elicit sympathy and support, Kelly would cry a river of tears and blather on to my beloved twelve-year-old daughter divulging things about our relationship that no child need ever hear. My fears are not unfounded. She has done this before. More than once before. More than twice. A lot of times.

And so I didn’t raise my voice. I felt such anger and bitterness and a profound sense of helplessness, but I did not curse. I did not blame or accuse. I did not. This is what I said:

“Kelly do you ever think that maybe Meagan is being harmed or disturbed by the way you’ve been living lately? Do you think living with Gary and Tim is healthy for her? I mean, who is this Gary guy anyway. Can you trust him never to touch Meagan inappropriately? And do you think it’s the right thing to do, to uproot her again and move to a new town?”

Her response was entirely predictable. She defended herself.

“Gary doesn’t live here. He moved back to Barrie. Because my so-called friends said I was some kind of sexual pervert doing ménage-a-trois with Gary and Tim. Ex-friends, now. I have no friends anymore, Dale. No one understands what I’ve been going through. And Gary is a nice guy. He would NEVER touch Meagan. I would NEVER bring a pervert into this house. NEVER! You know that. Meagan has no friends here either. She doesn’t like her school. They bully her there. She said she can’t wait to move to a new school.”

“Do you honestly think it’s normal to live that way, Kelly? With no friends, or bad friends? Drugs? Men you meet on the internet?”

This was the kind of statement that she had hoped for. She pounced.

“Do you know what Daniel told me? He said he’ll never go to church with you, ever. He said he doesn’t want anything to do with your church until you stop treating me this way.”

Church. My church. My religion. She’d found my jugular vein. I tried to reason with her, Ms J. But suddenly, it was out of control. She was talking non-stop, preventing me from saying another word. I tried four or five times to speak, but the attack was relentless. I didn’t stand a chance.

I found the “Off” button on the phone and pressed it hard with my thumb. And I’m still shaking. I’m trembling physically and emotionally.

If I’d listened to my friends and my parents, I would not have married Kelly. But I thought I knew best. Oh how I wish I’d listened!

Yesterday.

January 11, 2005

Tuesday. Dan wants a guitar. He’s asked for an electric guitar or an electric bass guitar, but I know I will not be able to tolerate the noise of an amplified instrument. Neither will the neighbours. His pleas have been intermittent for a few months now, but since he saw that concert on the weekend, he’s been more insistent.

I spoke with Girl Alex about this yesterday and she said, “Get him a guitar. A used one. Acoustic. They’re not that expensive. Maybe this will be just the thing to bring Dan out of his depression. We all need something to feel passionate about, Dale.” So finally, I relented and agreed to get him a guitar. An acoustic guitar. An inexpensive, acoustic guitar. Dan spent an hour on the phone yesterday afternoon, looking for shops that sell used guitars. He found three shops.

“When should we go, Dad?” he asked last night. “When will I get my used acoustic guitar?”

I stalled him for a few days.

“Pay day, Dan. We’ll go on pay day. This week. Thursday.”

This morning, I found red ink on the calendar. Thursday. “Guitar Day.”

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

OK. So he just woke up. It’s 10:30 am. He emerged from his bedroom and handed me a piece of paper.

“Here’s my plan, Dad. I was working on it last night.”

The paper contained mathematical calculations and sketches detailing his plan to buy an ELECTRIC guitar.

“I don’t want an electric guitar in this house, Dan.”

I handed him back his paper.

“Why not?”

“Too noisy.”

“I won’t play it loud, Dad.”

“Yes, you will. Of course you will. Electric guitars are made to be played loudly.”

“Yeah, but I’d play in the basement. I’d only play it when you were at work. You wouldn’t even hear it.”

“The neighbours would hear it, Dan. I don’t want an electric guitar in this house.”

He pointed to his plan sheet.

“Not right away, Dad. In a few months. I’d save for it. I’d get a job. At a CD shop. You didn’t even read my whole plan. You just read a couple of lines. Look.”

He showed me where he’d written “$30. per week for 7 weeks = $210. He’d awarded himself a raise, Ms J. We agreed on $20. per week. I didn’t mention it, though. Instead, I read aloud all the way to the bottom of the page where he’d drawn a picture of a v-shaped rock guitar.

“I like the part about getting a job, Dan,” I told him. “And I like the part about saving your money. But why can’t you be content with an “acoustic” (by this, I mean “quiet”) guitar until you learn how to play?”

“Well, how’m I gonna start a band with an acoustic guitar?” he asked.

“You’ll have to learn to play a guitar, son, before you can start a band. You’ll learn to play with an acoustic guitar. Then, months down the road, maybe even years, if you still have to have an electric guitar, you can buy one yourself. How does that sound?”

He seemed satisfied. Or maybe he just gave up. I don’t know. But this is a prime example of the kind of illogical dreaming he does. He pestered me for months to get him a guitar. We finally agree on an acoustic guitar and even set a date to go looking for one. Then he pushes me further by insisting on an electric guitar, saying he plans to start a rock band, even though he hasn’t the slightest clue how to play an instrument.

I don’t believe that kind of thinking is normal for an eighteen-year-old.

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

I had lunch with Jenn today. She’s worried about her son, Jake. Jake is seven. He spends hours crying every evening and saying he wishes he were dead. He’s told his older sister that he plans to use a knife. The boy is seven, Ms Journal. Seven years old. Jake’s in my prayers.

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Dan went to see the doctor today. Dr. Sharon Cirone. Nice lady. She’s a family doctor who specializes in adolescent mental health and addiction issues. Dan seems to like her. He made another appointment for two weeks from today and noted it on the calendar. He seems keen to see her again. And that makes me happy.

He’s driving me out of my mind with his talk of guitars!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Lately ...

January 8, 2005

Saturday. I exchanged Dan for Meagan last night. Dan was looking forward to spending time in Acton, although God only knows why. I hope it’s just to see his mum and not to gain access to drugs or internet. Kelly promised me there’d be neither.

It was a relaxing day here with Meagan. It’s such a different experience with her than it is with Dan. More peaceful. More comfortable. Less worrisome. We went shopping this afternoon. We went to Wal-mart so Meagan could use the $50. card that her grandma bought her for Christmas. I waited while she made her purchases. Meagan is a careful shopper. She takes her time and chooses only what she really wants. Often, she’ll leave the shop empty-handed when she doesn’t find just the right thing. This afternoon, she bought a little charm bracelet and a few other trinkets. She was very pleased with her purchases.

When we left Wal-mart, we went to a nearby mall to visit a music store. Christine gave both Dan and Meagan gift certificates to spend at HMV. $15. Meagan bought a CD. It carries a “Parent Advisory” sticker. I wish that she’d chosen something nicer, but honestly Ms J, it’s hard to do nowadays. I stood with her at the “Best Sellers” rack and surveyed the music there. There were about a dozen different CD’s; eight had “Parental Advisory” tags on them. Violence and vulgarity are currently popular with kids. I find it disgraceful. But if I forbid my girl from buying that sort of thing, she’ll simply listen to it elsewhere, or download it from a friend’s computer and make her own copy. What can I do but voice my opposition?

After we’d finished our shopping, we drove to Oakville to visit Rose. Rose is a friend of mine. Another one of my many female friends, Ms J. She’s one of the women with whom I sit on the afternoon train to Oakville from Toronto. She told me on Friday that she had an old dresser and asked if I’d like it for Dan’s room. I said yes. So this afternoon, Meagan and I went to fetch it.

It’s not an expensive piece of furniture. It’s not even very nice, actually. But Dan will be thrilled to have a place to put his clothes.

After dinner tonight, I made some cupcakes. We bought a cake mix and some frosting when we were out earlier. Meagan chose the mix and the frosting. Rainbow something-or-other. It would not have been my first choice. Anyway, I baked some cupcakes after dinner. They were terrible. Flat. Gooey. Falling apart. Funny-tasting.

“These are crap, Dad.”

Thank you, Meagan. I wonder what happened?

January 9, 2005

Sunday. Christine dropped by this morning; we went together to church again.

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As I stood shaving in the bathroom this morning, a sudden thought came to me. A tiny thought, it was. A single syllable. Eggs. I forgot to add eggs to that cake mix yesterday. It calls for three.

January 10, 2005

Monday. I took Meagan home last night and brought Dan back to Mimico. He talked about a concert he’d seen on Saturday night in Georgetown. He was still very excited about it. He “owned” the mosh pit, he told me. I tried to understand what a “mosh” pit is, Ms J. But I’m afraid the concept still eludes me somewhat.

As near as I can tell, a mosh pit is a place on the floor in front of the stage, where kids push and shove and jostle each other in a bizarre type of dance that borders on violence. Strange behaviour. Still stranger music. I confess, Ms Journal. It makes no sense to me whatsoever. Torn clothing. Spiked hair. Tattoos and multiple body piercings. Pushing and shoving, and screaming in order to be heard over the unholy din pulsing from the amplified speakers. These kids seem to worship violence and anarchy. At the end of the concert, the guitarist lifted his instrument above his head and swung it hard against the drum set, destroying both it and the bass drum.

“Yeah, Dad. That was the best part! It was awesome!!”

I’m still shaking my head. I’m feeling more and more like my father every day, Ms. J.

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I visited with Girl Alex this morning. She served me scrambled eggs and toast and tea. I took some muffins I had baked. I remembered the eggs this time. We had a nice chat and I drove her to school around noon. Alexandra James is a beautiful young lady.

I wish so much Dan could be a little more …

No. Dan has his own Life to live. He must walk his own path.

We have an appointment to see a doctor tomorrow at St. Joseph’s hospital. On Wednesday, we’re going to see a counselor at LAMP. Lakeshore Area Multi-service Project. My doctor’s office called today with another appointment for Dan. He’s going to see a psychiatrist in New Toronto on February 18. Dr. Sherret.

“Wheels, Dad. Wheels are turning.”

Dear God, I hope so.

Oh and Dan’s dresser? I found it this morning with Dan’s 26 inch television sitting on it. On top of the TV, was a VCR. On top of the VCR, sat Dan’s PS2 console. A huge old clock radio was balanced precariously at the summit. The poor old legs below the dresser were bent and weakened under the weight. We removed the legs and sat the dresser on the floor.

“Yeah, that’s better, eh Dad? Lower is good.”

“Yes, son. Lower is better. Lower is much better. And safer.”