Something's Rotten in the Village of Mimico

Or so it would seem by the smell coming in the window.

I was sitting at home this afternoon, reading blogs and hoping I might think of something interesting to write about when I became aware of a faint odour on the cool breeze. It was slight at first, the odour. So I ignored it and continued my reading. Soon however, the scent grew stronger and more pungent until at last it was impossible to ignore. It was the unmistakable smell of a skunk. I bore it as long as I could, Ms J, but eventually I was forced to close the window. The office upstairs here was pretty rank so I sprayed some bathroom deodorizer and soon forgot about the incident.

When it was time to return to work, I stepped into my boots, pulled a sweatshirt over my head and opened the front door. The smell of skunk hit me immediately. It was staggering. I stepped outside and looked around carefully. I knew the animal had sprayed nearby. Perhaps it was still around.

An apprehensive search in the flower bed and around the shrubbery turned up no sign of the malodorous mammal so I turned and looked out to the street. There, in front of the house next door, lay the lifeless body of a skunk. It had been struck by a passing car, I suppose. Cautiously, I approached it. The unfortunate creature still oozed crimson from a mortal wound to the head. It was definitely dead.

I hurried to the shed where I retrieved my gardening gloves and a large plastic trash bag. I returned to the skunk and stood over it a moment. In a futile attempt to defend itself, it had sprayed its vile musk. It stank terribly. My stomach began to heave and I pulled the collar of my shirt over my nose. I was loathe to touch the animal at all, let alone lift it and put it in the bag I carried.

I took a deep breath inside my shirt and held it. Then I grabbed the tail, raised the animal and lowered it gently into the bag. Wrinkling my nose and squinting against the ammonia-like vapours, I carefully knotted the bag at the top. Then I put it with the trash that waited collection at the curb.

Fifteen minutes later, I was on the train heading downtown.

"I smell a skunk," said my mate, frowning and sniffing the air.

"Oh that's not a skunk, it's me you smell," I said and I knew that didn't sound quite right. "I found a dead skunk just as I was leaving for work today. I put it in a bag."

"Whaddaya mean ya put it in a bag?" he said. "Do you normally collect dead skunks? Is it a hobby of yours?"

"Well," I began, "I was sitting at home this afternoon, reading blogs and hoping I might think of something interesting to write about when I became aware of a faint odour on the cool breeze...."

***

A Day For G.A.

I took the morning off work to help Alex and her friend move into their new place. I met with Alex at her old apartment here in Mimico at 7:30 this morning. We loaded a few more items into the truck and off we went in the morning rush hour to her new home. Sky met us there.

Honestly Ms J, I liked her old place much better than the new one. Her old place was MUCH bigger and MUCH nicer. And much closer to me. But her old apartment was paid for by government assistance (i.e. welfare). Alex declares proudly that she's no longer on welfare. She and Sky will pay the rent themselves. I wish so much that she still lived in Mimico.

G.A. had a very productive, busy day. She relocated to a new apartment downtown(ish) and started two new jobs. She had her orientation this morning at 10:00 as an usher in a popular downtown theatre. And after helping Sky and me unload boxes from our rented van, she raced off to another location to start a third job as a drama teacher. She'll be leading a class of children, 6-8 years old, in an after school drama programme.

Sky and I worked hard all day to get everything moved in time to return the van and allow me to get back to work at 3:00. My legs are sore. My back is sore. But my heart is happy.

Alex was on welfare for a year. She hated it.

"I can't wait to get a job and never have to deal with these people ever again," she once told me. "I'm going to finish school, get a job and tell these government people to get lost. They treat us like trash, Dale."

This afternoon, after we'd carried the last box into the new place, Girl Alex turned to me and smiled that beautiful smile of hers.

"We really appreciate you helping us like this, don't we Sky? I don't know how to thank you."

I went to her and put my arms around her. She gives the best hugs, Ms J.

"Be a good girl, Alex," I told her. "Be happy. Love yourself. Be gentle with each other. Make me proud."

She looked into my eyes then and said, "I will. I promise."

Promise. That's what she gave me. That's what she has, Ms J. Promise. In great abundance. The promise of Life yet to be discovered.

I love you, Girl Alex. I hope Meagan turns out just like you.


Alex. She's just 18. So much to discover.

***

Today's Events

I had lunch with Girl Alex recently. Big changes are ahead for her. Exciting changes. She has graduated with honours from high school and decided to work for a year. She has secured no less than three (!) jobs. She has found a new apartment which she’ll share with a friend. Her sister, Hanna, will go to live with her grandparents in Oakville. Also, G.A. has been accepted as a candidate for Youth Challenge International, a group that facilitates youth participation in volunteerism in third world countries. Here’s a brief description, taken from their web site:

Make a world of difference.

Central America
South America
Caribbean
South Pacific
Africa

Youth Challenge International builds the skills, experience and confidence of young people by involving them in substantive overseas development projects in partnership with local youth-serving organizations.

YCI has active programs impacting youth in Canada, Africa, Central and South America, the Caribbean and the South Pacific. Over 2,500 Canadian youth have had life changing experiences with YCI since 1989. And our alumni have become Canada's talented and engaged new leaders.


She hopes to travel to Guyana in February to spend two months in the service of those less fortunate. It will cost $2,250 plus airfare. I’ll help her if she asks, but I’ll bet she’ll save the money herself. She’s an independent young woman, Girl Alex. She’s my friend. And I’m so proud to know her.

Today, I spent the early evening helping Alex move her belongings to her new apartment. She is renting a new place with her friend, Sky. Yesterday, the two girls spent the day cleaning and painting. Purple and blue walls. It's not my cuppa tea, Ms J, but it's not my place either. Tomorrow, we hope to finish the move and return the rented van.

Oh, one more thing before I retire tonight ...

I got a phone call last night from Jenny Le Riche. Jenny will be directing the next show in Oakville. You'll never guess who got the part of Andy, the city police chief. Both Tom Hanks and Hugh Grant were busy with other projects, so The Burl-Oak Theatre Group (BOTG) awarded the role to me. The first read-through will be held October 18. The show opens January 12.

***

The Arrogance of Youth

Some young people can be quite arrogant, can't they? I remember feeling pretty smug back in the days when I was still omniscient. Arrogance, youthful arrogance, is born I think, of a sense of one's own immortality. And young people, especially boys, are quite convinced they are immortal, invulnerable, "Ten Feet Tall and Bulletproof" to quote country singer Travis Tritt. That's why armies find young men so valuable, although dispensable.

I was at work this afternoon, at the throttle of a train loaded with homebound commuters, when I rounded a curve to find two young men strolling along between the rails. They had their backs to us and were still some distance away when I rang the bell. As we closed the distance at 60 mph, I sounded the whistle. They turned and regarded our train as though they hadn't a care in the world. I blew the whistle again. We were perhaps a quarter mile from them. Maybe fifteen seconds at our current speed.

There are three main line tracks at that location. Our train occupied the middle track, as did the trespassing teens. I blew the whistle again. Train whistles are LOUD, Ms J. REALLY LOUD. And the headlight is very bright. But as I said, they were moving in the same direction as our train.

"Look at these two, will ya?" I said to my mate who was staring at them and shaking his head.

"Idiots," was his response. "Helluva place for an afternoon stroll."

Kevin looked in the mirror mounted outside his window and spoke with more urgency.

"I hope they don't step over onto Track One. Here comes 48 and he's haulin' ass."

Number 48 is a daily passenger train that runs from Toronto to Montreal. That train travels at 100 mph.

"Is he getting close?" I asked.

"Naw. He's still back a ways. I can see his headlight, though."

I pressed the yellow horn button again and held it this time. The horn sounded long and loud. I wanted these kids to get off the tracks. And stay off them. Why do people insist on using railway tracks as a pedestrian thoroughfare?

The two stepped out of our path and of course, onto Track One into the path of 48. I grabbed the radio handset.

"VIA 48, this is GO 414. Over."

No response. I tried again.

"VIA 48, this is GO 414. Over."

And finally they answered.

"48 here. Go ahead 414."

I warned them to watch out for trespassers and gave them the exact location.

As we flashed past these unconcerned kids, horn blaring a deafening warning, they both turned toward us and extended their arms and displayed the one-finger salute. Then they calmly disappeared into the woods. At least they were safe

Think of it, Ms J. We encounter trespassers who are in imminent danger of being struck by not one, but two speeding trains. We warn them, possibly saving their Lives, and how do they respond? By telling us to go screw ourselves!

Sometimes I wonder how we ever lived through those self-important teen years. It's amazing any of us survived!

***

Another Play?

Maybe. But I won't get paid for this one. It's community theatre.

Last night, my friend Christine joined me for dinner. She brought a lovely salad and some frozen hamburg patties. She even brought the buns. We cooked the meat on the barbecue and enjoyed our hamburgers with a swallow of red wine. After dinner, we drove to Oakville to audition for a play.

It's called "Yesteryear". I don't know much about it, Ms J, except that it was written by a Canadian woman. The story is set in the fictional city of Raglan, Saskatchewan in the summer of 1948. The cast includes seven men and three women. It's a romantic comedy. I really hope Christine and I both get parts. I have worked with her on stage before, but not since we did "The Kindergarten play" in 2002. That was an awesome show, Ms Journal. I consider it the best play I've ever been a part of. Christine's a good actress. I do hope she impressed the director.

We'll have to be patient for a week or so. They'll call us and let us know whether we're in or out. Fingers crossed.

***

Perspectives

"It's all good," say the kids these days. But the Truth, Ms J, is that it is not all good. All is not good. Not always and not with all people. Sometimes, things are not good at all. A case in point is the suffering caused by recent and ongoing hurricanes wreaking havoc in Texas and Louisiana. Or the pain and despair my friend Jenn will endure, having been the victim of a brutal sexual attack last week. Closer to home still, is my friend Bob. Things are not "all good" for Bob either.

Bob was here for lunch yesterday. I hadn't seen my friend in a fortnight or so. Bob's an actor and he's been very supportive of me over the past few years. I first met him in a play we did together in 2001. He wanted to hear all about my first paying gig (the Hydro thing I did last week) and of course, I told him. I also told him about the money I found. My manner of speech is quite animated at times and I was excited anew as I recounted the day's events. I told him about the play and the money I earned, (and found!) and enthusiastically, I told him all about the fantastic weekend Meagan and I had at Teen Ranch and about how amazing and thrilling my Life has been lately. My friend listened as I spoke and he shared my elation. He was smiling and laughing and congratulating me.

I raised my palms and my eyebrows and stared at him and smiled.

"It's all good, eh Bob? Isn't it all good?"

When it seemed I'd monopolised the conversation long enough, I asked him about himself. Bob is not married and lives with his mother. I asked about her too. She's been ill lately.

"So what about you, Bobby?" I asked, sipping hot tea after lunch. "How are you doing? How's yer mum?"

Bob didn't hesitate at all in his response. His burden must have been cumbersome. He could no longer carry it alone.

"I took her to the doctor yesterday. She's got cancer. It's in her throat somewhere I think. They have to do more tests."

The warm energy that had filled the room a moment ago was now completely gone, drained, like water from the bath tub. I swallowed and blinked and turned to look out the window. A black squirrel ran across the lawn with a walnut in his mouth. The television was playing in the living room behind me. It suddenly seemed to be blaring and I got up to turn it off. The room was quiet when I returned to my chair.

"I guess it's not good for everyone, is it?" I said softly. "Not everybody's as happy as me, are they, Bob?"

I felt a twinge of guilt for being so happy a minute ago. How is it right that I express my unrestrained joy in the fortunate Life I lead while others hurt so? I have the right to happiness, don't I? Isn't happiness my divine right? My duty and obligation? I sat still until the feeling passed, and I vowed to be more aware that others may not have so much to celebrate.

I stole a glance at Bob and quickly looked away. Men's tears really upset me, Ms Journal. So do the tears of a friend. I had never seen this man cry before. He balled his big fists, wiped his eyes and apologised for ... something. Crying, I suppose. I don't know. Personally, I cannot understand the need to feel remorse for showing honest emotion.

"Please don't apologise, Bob," I said. "There's no shame in a man loving his mum."

"What will I do?" he sobbed. "What the hell will I do ...?"

I knew his question was rhetorical and I let it hang there in the awkward stillness. It didn't require an answer. There is no answer to that question. Not yet.

Our conversation gradually moved to what I'd hoped would be less emotional matters. We talked about the theatre and about gas prices and taxes and about current events. It was clear that my friend was angry. His anger was apparent as he railed against the government tax system.

("They'll never force me to pay my taxes. I'll tell them to go screw themselves!")

The forced evacuation of Gulf Coast residents in the face of impending hurricanes also enraged him.

"I wouldn't leave my home if I lived there. It's my f-ing house. No one can make me get out of my own house. I'd chain myself to the house somehow. They'd have to shoot me and take me away in an ambulance."

He went on and on. And I listened. His anger was excessive and his words were ridiculous until I understood where they came from. Bob was trying to feel as though he had some control over the events in his Life. But try as he might, in his heart of hearts, he knew full well that ultimately, he could not direct his fate. Or the fate of his beloved mother.

It's a sobering thought, Ms J. We are not in charge of things here. Not really. We like to imagine we have control, but we don't. Not in the long run. This is God's world. We are God's people. He has the keys. He does the steering.

I love you, Bob. I am your friend. I'll help you. I haven't the slightest idea how, but I'll help you. Happiness, it would seem, can be nebulous. And fleeting.

I'll do well to remember that.

***

I Hate Holland

I don't mean to, Ms J. But I can't seem to help it. Let me explain.

Donna was my second wife, my last wife, and the one I truly loved. I behaved badly in the relationship and after six years together (two years married) Donna stopped loving me. She had demonstrated patience and tolerance beyond anything imaginable. She deserves credit for that. In what appeared to me then to be a sudden and capricious decision, she evicted me from our home and barred me from her Life forever. My pain had just begun. She sought Love on the internet and soon found it. She packed her belongings and fled to a new continent to begin a new Life with a new lover. His name is Rein. They live in The Netherlands, about an hour from Amsterdam. Donna and Rein are married now; I wish them happiness.

Donna moved quickly from hurt to happiness, but for me, it's been a long journey to this point, Ms J. A long, long journey indeed. I spent most of three years loving her and hating her at the same time. I wished for relief. I longed to forget her and just not to care anymore. I prayed for it, fervently and repeatedly. Church helped. So did friends. I have lots of friends, Ms Journal. Wonderful, trustworthy, caring, loving friends. I am so blessed.

After May 28, 2000, I abhorred all things "Donna". I detested Nova Scotia. Cape Breton Island. Donna's birthplace. I hated little red cars and perpetually happy people. I hated East Coast music, Celtic music. Fiddles. I hated lobsters and mussels and Atlantic salmon. She moved to Holland, so I hated all things Dutch: Tulips. Windmills. KLM. Van Anything. The entire Amsterdamn country.

But I didn't like hating Holland. Holland loves Canada. The Dutch are eternally grateful to Canada for liberating their country from the Nazis in World War Two. My father spent time in Holland during the war. He fell in love with a Dutch girl in Apeldoorn. He still talks about "Yanny Visser". Dad is a huge fan of Holland. It didn't feel right to continue hating people I've never met. Although I long ago stopped hating Donna and all her Donna things, I was still struggling with my unhealthy attitude toward The Netherlands.

The Universe offered me help. I was subjected to Dutch books, (I recently read The Diary of Anne Frank) and movies with Dutch settings (Deuce Bigalow - European Gigalo). Even the intern minister at church is of Dutch descent. Her name is Carla Van Delen. She's very nice. My friend Andra recently visited Donna in Europe. She brought me a souvenir - A candle from Holland.


My Holland Candle. Tapering bad feelings.

Every day lately, I have burned this candle and prayed for an end to my burden of contempt. I've carried it long enough. My hope is that when the candle is gone, so too will be my unreasonable torment. My father loved a Dutch girl. He was, and remains quite smitten with The Netherlands. I have no reason to hate Holland. I never had a reason to hate Holland.

Besides, there's a woman who lives there, who will always hold a special place in my heart. I love you Donna Lesa. And I always will. I'm sorry things didn't work out between us, but I know now it was all for the best. I wish you peace.

***

Tuesday. Just Tuesday.

Nothing to tell you today, Ms J.

It was a loverly day. I finally remembered to take my camera to work so I could record the sunrise, but it was less than spectacular this morning. I took a quick pic, but later deleted it.

I did, however, capture this view of our fair Toronto in the afternoon sunshine.


Approaching downtown from the west.

Cool, eh? I see this scene every afternoon as I pilot our empty train back to Union Station from Oakville. We load more passengers at Union, and make all the stops then to Pickering.

---

Since I haven't much to tell you today, I thought maybe I'd share a few pics from our weekend at Teen Ranch.


This sign greets visitors as they first enter the property.


The Coach House. We slept here. Seminars were held in a beautiful big room upstairs.


The Dining Room sat about seventy people at a dozen large tables. The food was excellent and plentiful.


Teen Ranch also operates in Australia and Indonesia.


In Europe, too. They sometimes exchange counselors.


There's more to do than riding. There's this swing ... "Try it, Dad. It's amazing!"

So I did. I tried it, Ms J. Meagan held the camera. And my glasses. And dignity.


They strapped me into a harness.


Raised me about fifty feet into the air, suspended between two poles.


And dropped me.

Holy Crap, it was frightening! For a moment, I forgot I was at a Christian camp and yelled something quite inappropriate. Everyone laughed though.


I nearly s***t myself!!!

Meagan collapsed with laughter! I love to hear her laugh. Dinner was served right after this. I wasn't very hungry.

Well that's about it for today, then. Time for bed. Night, Ms J.

***

Father/Daughter Conference

I won't bore you with a long, detailed post, Ms J, other than to tell you it was awesome! Scout and I both had a brilliant time. We hiked a bit together. We rode horses together.


Meagan rode Billy. I rode Ben.

On a hilltop under a spectacularly bright full moon, we sang with others around a crackling campfire. We attended seminars - together and separately - to learn ways to better relate to each other. I learned how to listen and to parent her; Meagan learned that despite some silly mistakes, dads love their daughters. The conference was designed to empower dads and daughters, and to allow us to find the courage to say the things we'd longed to say.

On Saturday afternoon, we held each other and wept as we shared our hopes and fears for the future. She apologised for withholding her Love during the time my leg was first broken. She was angry with me for things I had said about her mum. She didn't realise how much it hurt me not to see her for those three months. And I am so sorry for hurting her. I told her how frightened I am that she'll risk her own happiness, as her mother and brother have done, by making poor decisions. I told her that lots of people love her and counted them on my fingers: God, me, Mum, Daniel, Grandma and Granddad and yes, Scott too.

"But of all the people in the world who love you, Scout, who do you think is the most important?"

Tears had turned her eyes the soft blue colour of tropical seas.

"You?" she asked.

I shook my head slowly and stared into her eyes. After a moment, she lowered her head and shrugged her shoulders. A salty drop splashed silently on her folded hands.

"No, honey. You are. If you love youself as much as God loves you, as much as I love you, then you'll never, ever do anything that might hurt you. You'll want only the best things Life can offer you. You'll want to look after yourself. You'll want your Self to be happy."

My cheeks were wet now too. I sniffed and wiped my nose with a tissue.

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Meagan? Please hear my words. This is very important."

"I understand, Daddy. I won't disappoint you."

I gently lifted her chin to look into her face. When she met my gaze, I raised my eyebrows and waited.

"And I won't disappoint me either," she said finally.

Then we embraced again and together, we wept.


I love you to the moon and back, Meagan.

Thank you, God, for this child. Thank you for giving her wisdom. Thank you for her beautiful heart. Protect her.

Amen.

***

A Most Brilliant Day!

What a fantastic day, Ms J! I took the whole day off work to do the play, so I allowed myself the luxury of sleeping later. The alarm sounded at 4:15, but I hit the snooze button twice and hugged my pillow until after 4:30. It was, as Scout would say, "sweet."

I rode the train downtown to the Metro Toronto Convention Centre, a HUGE building near our main train station. The building was designed to be a place to hold corporate meetings and large conventions. This morning, dozens of buses arrived bringing more than 1600 employees of Toronto Hydro. Apparently, they were expecting a series of long, boring speeches given by both union and management to outline a new policy against harrassment in the work place. Instead, they were treated to some very cleverly done live theatre.

(Um, ... That'd be me, Ms J. Dale Pringle. Actor par excellence!)

There were five of us in the cast: three men and two women. I was the least experienced in the group. The others were all professional actors. At first, I was a bit intimidated, especially by Roger. Roger has boundless energy, a keen wit, and enough self-confidence for five people. Luciano ("Call me Looch") was the other male. He not only acted, but also wrote both plays. Looch was very nice to me. Very supportive. So were the women, Debra and Heather. At first, I struggled with feelings of inferiority, but in the end, I discovered I can hold my own against these seasoned pros. I missed a few lines, but so did the pros. I was nervous before the show, but they were too. Roger, of course, oozed confidence throughout the entire process. But I admit, Ms J, the man's good. He was clearly the audience favourite.

There were two plays. The first was an office scene depicting sexual harrassment via e-mail images and suggestive messages. My character was implicated, but not guilty. He did, however, send a pornographic image to his wife, Nancy who works in a different department. I offer an embarrassed confession.

"Me and Nancy, we ... She's probably already ... I knew she wouldn't ..."

The second piece had more substance, I think. I was Phil, the principle character. Phil was recently transfered from "Coastal Hydro" to a different yard and was faced with not only being the "newbie", but was also forced to endure rejection and abuse by other yard employees.

"I always knew you Coastal guys were a buncha fuckin' faggots."

Phil is shocked by their behaviour. Hurt. And angry. His supervisor doesn't care. His union steward offers no help. Phil is left with a conundrum: either sort it out himself, or quit the company where he's worked for twenty-two years. He screams in frustration at his supervisor: "Yeah? Well, if you want me to deal with it myself, somebody's gonna get their fuckin' head smashed in!"

The audience was comprised of office workers and storage yard employees. Men and women. All were surprised by the language. A few were shocked. I spoke with many of them after the show, and they told me they were really impressed with the authenticity. The set. The costumes and situations. The dialogue. They loved us! And Toronto Hydro (our local electricity provider) was more than satisfied with our presentation.

"It was really well done," the CEO told me afterward, pumping my arm. "You really got the message across and showed how damaging harrassment and abuse can be. Thank you so much."

I am proud of what I did today. I believe strongly in the anti-harrassment message we delivered. And I came away with a clearer understanding of the way careless remarks can hurt. I received a year's worth of acting experience in less than a week. I learned a lot from the pros. I have a cheque for a thousand dollars.

I spoke privately with Simon, the director.

"I think I've been paid too much, Simon," I suggested. "You told me I'd get six fifty."

"Well it worked out to seven hundred," he told me. "The extra three hundred was because it was video taped. Toronto Hydro plans to use the video for in house training. Could be you'll become a celebrity among Hydro employees."

Then he smiled and hugged my shoulder.

"Good job, Dale. I'm really pleased with what you brought to this production."

Imagine it, Ms Journal. Me. A paid actor! I was absolutely glowing as I walked along Front St. in the afternoon sunshine. But the day wasn't over yet. There were more wonderful surprises in store for me.

As I crossed University Avenue, I spied a beggar sitting on the sidewalk. He held a dirty baseball cap out in hopes of receiving alms. The cap was empty. I reached in my pocket but I had no coins to offer. There was only a fiver, so I pulled it out and placed it in his filthy hat.

"Good luck, friend," I said as I walked away.

I hope he used the money to buy some food. He was dreadfully thin. But he'll most likely buy drugs or wine. I'm sure he'll do what he thinks he must in order to feel better, poor bastard. I looked up to see the bright sun glinting off the mirrored glass on the downtown bank towers. There's enough money in this town to build elegant skyscrapers, I thought, but not enough to help a beggar get back on his feet. Why must so much wealth belong to so few people?

I entered Union Station and passed through the Grand Hall on the departure level. I always marvel at the magnificent vaulted ceiling and grand space there in the place built in the time of steam trains and Model "T" Fords. It was officially opened by HRH King Edward, Prince of Wales in 1927. Union Station is Canada's busiest train station serving 130,000 commuter train passengers and 30,000 bus passengers every business day. I began to descend the stairs to the commuter concourse.

On the third step, something caught my eye. I glanced down and froze. There was money on the step. A lot of money. Folding money. Folded. I bent and scooped it up and came face to face with Sir Robert Borden.


One Hundred Dollars!

Four Sir Robert Bordens. Four one hundred dollar bills, Ms J. Four hundred dollars! On the stairs at Union Station.

I looked around. Who could have dropped this, I wondered? Would they return here to look for it? Maybe it was all the money they had in the world. Maybe this would be a terrible loss for someone. What was I to do? After pondering my options for five minutes or so, I decided to pocket the money. But I knew it was not mine. The Universe had given me four hundred dollars. I knew I could not, in good conscience, keep it. But to whom should it go?

I fingered the crisp, new paper in my pocket as I rode the GO train back to Mimico. For a moment, I wished I'd left it where it was. But someone else would have found it, I reasoned. And simply kept it. I couldn't do that. It would nearly pay for our Father/Daughter Conference this weekend. But I couldn't spend that money. It wasn't mine. Maybe it was counterfeit. I vowed to take it to the bank to have them check its authenticity. A part of me hoped it was phony. Then there'd be no dilemma, would there?

The girl at the bank checked each bill with a black light and one by one, she declared them legal tender.

"I can't keep it," I told her. "I found this money at Union Station this aft'."

She looked confused.

"Union Station? Why can't you keep it?"

She had really pretty eyes. Brown. And shiny black hair.

"It's not mine, is it?" I told her.

She still didn't get it.

"Yeah, but 'Finders keepers' ...," she said and smiled.

But I had made up my mind.

"No. The Universe has given me this money," I said. "It's not mine. I have to give it back."

She was bewildered, I think.

"To who?"

I shook my head.

"I dunno. Someone who needs it, I guess. Someone who needs it worse than you or I. Any suggestions?"


Easy come. Easy go.

When you come across something good, the best thing to do is give it away. That way the good spreads out. There's no telling how far it'll go.

Tomorrow afternoon, Meagan and I will drive to Teen Ranch to begin our weekend together. Friday is father/daughter "date night." Gosh I love my Life! Have a good weekend, Ms J. See you Monday.

***

This is the day ...

Today's our big day. We perform two shows - one at 9:00 and another at 1:00. Rehearsal went well yesterday. I'm still a bit weak on my lines, but I'm feeling more confident. I've taken the day off work but I'll still be riding the train. I refuse to suffer the downtown traffic another day, so I'll take the train.

Wish me luck, Ms J. But please, do not say "break a ..." Well, you know.

Ta!

***

Everything at once

Short post. Short. Sweet. Well, not completely sweet.

I don't know how Dan made out in court this morning. I haven't been able to reach him yet. I've left voice mail, but Kelly's phone will not make long distance calls so Dan can't call me back. Maybe if she'd pay her bill on time ...

I have three adorable kittens living under my front porch. Tiny faces no bigger than golf balls peer out from behind the lattice. I don't know where the mother is, but they've been there two days now. I don't really know what to do with them, if anything. And I haven't time to find them a home. No. I don't want a cat, thank you.

A dear and a beloved friend was sexually attacked this morning as she changed a flat tire on her car. She spent the afternoon in hospital. She's on her way now to give a police statement. Please God, wrap your arms around her. Help her see that she's safe. I feel so fucking ashamed to be a man right now.

Rehearsals are crazy. The pace is not frantic, but I am. None of us has learned our lines yet. We perform on Thursday. Two shows. Total audience: 1600. Lord, if you can spare a minute for a very nervous actor ...

I know. Breathe.

***

Happy Birthday, Dan!

What a busy day, Ms J! I was at work from 4:45 this morning, until 9:00. Then I got in my car and drove downtown to an old church building at Carlton St and Sherbourne. That's where Mixed Company leases their office and rehearsal space. The historical plaque on the outside wall indicates it was first built as a Methodist church in 1879. The rehearsal was intense and lasted until 3:30, when I left to fight the traffic all the way to Acton.

I took Dan out for a pizza dinner and dessert. I even bought us each a glass of beer to acknowledge his attaining legal drinking age. (19) We clinked our glasses and I proposed a toast. "To a happy future." We had a nice visit. It wasn't nearly as stressful as I'd feared. Dan mentioned the fact that he had to appear in court tomorrow morning and hinted at the possibility of me driving him. I told him no.

"I can't, Dan. I work until 9:00 and then I have to be downtown to rehearse a new play."

He didn't seem surprised.

"Alright, Dad. I can do it myself. I'll figure out a way to get myself there. It's been just me lately, doing everything for myself."

I told him that's what it means to be an adult. Your parents can't look after you forever. It hurts me not to help him, Ms J. But that's the only way he'll learn.

He didn't actually mention the pregnancy. Not specifically, anyway. But he hinted that his Life was taking a big turn and heading in a new direction. I told him that while I wasn't thrilled with his behaviour lately, and with the choices he's been making, I still love him. I will always love him. He's my son. I told him that, Ms Journal. In those exact words.

On the street outside his mother's house, I took his big hand in both of mine and squeezed it tightly. He looked into my face with his clear blue eyes.

"I know you love me, Dad. I love you too."

"I just wish, Daniel, that you loved yourself as much as I love you. I wish you could understand how valuable you are, how important you are. To me."

"Really?"

"Yes, son. Really."

He smiled then and got out of the car.

"Thanks for coming, Dad. Thanks for dinner. It's the only birthday present I've got today."

Dinner. Pfff. The things he most desperately needs, I am unable to give him. He must somehow discover them for himself. I pray he will soon. Happy birthday, son. And good luck tomorrow.

***

Me? A Paid Actor?

I got a phone call the other day from Simon. Simon directed me years ago in a play called "Swimming For Shore." It was a community play, written for and about the lakeshore communities of Mimico, New Toronto, Long Branch and Alderwood. It was a delightful story and my first serious foray into the world of stage acting.

"My company is doing a play for Toronto Hydro, Dale, and I was wondering if you could help me out. We need a male actor."

I was confused. Who? What? Where? When?

It turns out I was recommended by an acquaintance of mine - Heather is her name - who was assistant director of "Swimming For Shore" and with whom I've taken a few acting classes. Heather runs Sirius Theatrical Company, an acting school. She has recently been hired by Simon to fill the position of General Manager of his theatre group, Mixed Company. Mixed Company is not a community theatre company, but rather a professional company specializing in Forum Theatre. Click on the link to learn about Forum Theatre. It's very effective as a teaching tool in schools, government and business.

"When does it open, Simon?" I asked.

"Thursday. Next Thursday. The 15th."

"Are you serious?" I exclaimed. "When will we rehearse?"

This idea was looking worse by the minute. Such short notice!

"When are you available?" he answered.

I told him about my split shifts, four hours in the morning and then another four in the afternoon.

"So you'd be able to rehearse during the day then, eh? Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday?"

I told him yes, between ten and say, two.

"Could you give us til three?"

Maybe. But I'd have to take the afternoon off work. And I can't afford to do that.

"It's a paying gig, Dale."

He called it a gig, Ms J. The man called it a gig. How much did it pay, I asked him. I was thinking of maybe a hundred dollars.

"Six hundred and fifty dollars," Simon said, matter-of-factly. "Total. Three days of rehearsal and two fifteen minute shows."

I just stood there, clutching the phone and blinking. Six hundred ...??

"Yeah, I think we can work around your schedule. Will you do it, Dale?"

I found my voice again and did my best to sound impassive.

"OK, Simon. I look forward to working with you again. It's been a long time since "Swimming For Shore". Do you remember me?"

He said he did and recalled that I played multiple characters in that play. It was really challenging, but fun. Simon and Heather are good at bringing out the best in an actor.

I'll be busy this week, Ms J. Dan's birthday is on Monday. I'll have rehearsals downtown on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and two little shows on Thursday. Friday, I'm collecting Scout for our Father/Daughter Conference at Teen Ranch.

Gosh, my Life is exciting. And Dan puts it over the top!

***

Hey Ms J.

What's new? Oh not much, really. Dan's birthday is fast approaching. September 12. Monday. He's been looking forward to turning nineteen so he can drink legally. God help him. I've bought him neither card nor gift. I had planned to ignore his birthday this year. But it doesn't feel right. It doesn't feel like the kind of thing a good father does. He hasn't been acting like a good son for the past couple of years. Still, it doesn't feel right not to wish my boy a happy birthday. I considered taking him out for dinner on Monday, just the two of us. I agonized over what to talk about. On Friday morning I phoned Kelly for advice.

"You know him better than I do, Kelly. What should I say to him? 'So I hear you've knocked up a retard. Way to go, son.' Seriously, Kel. What can we talk about? His court appearance the next day?"

Her answer didn't surprise me. She recommended the easy way out.

"Don't mention any of that unless he brings it up. Just talk about other stuff. He got a job, finally. Ask him about that."

I told her I'm not sure I'll be able to do that. It seems to me there are some pretty important issues to discuss. I mean, I'm glad he got a job and all, but what if he has to go to jail? And what about the baby? What are they going to do with the baby?

"They'll prob'ly just stay here, Dale. Where else could they go?"

I am so torn up inside about this, Ms Journal. So angry. So frightened. So hurt and disappointed.

"Dan should hear how I feel about this," I said sternly.

"He knows how you feel about it, Dale. Don't you think he knows you're angry and disappointed in him? Why do you think he's avoided seeing you or speaking to you?"

I was silent for a long time as I took in what she'd said. Dan never answered the phone when I called. He never came to the door when I collected Meagan or delivered her home. Maybe he was avoiding me.

"Are you still there?"

"Yeah, Kelly," I sighed. "I'm still here. I don't know what to do. I want Dan to know that I haven't written him off completely, that I still care about him. And I think it's right that I should see him on his birthday, especially since I didn't get him a card and it's too late now to send one. It's just that I'm nervous as hell about seeing him. I don't know what I'll do, what I'll say. I feel like punching him right square in the lips. Well, that's how I feel right now, anyway. Help me, Kelly. Help me find the right words to say to him. I don't see how we can sit together over dinner and not discuss the fact that he's gotten a seventeen year old retarded girl pregnant."

The thought crossed my mind then to demand to know what on earth she was thinking when she put those two together in the first place. Honestly, Ms J. What kind of a mother would match her son up with a mentally challenged girlfriend? Eh? I ask you. I'm absolutely appalled at Kelly's lack of judgment in that regard, and to be frank, livid beyond words. But I've learned that it's pointless to criticise her. In fact, it's proven in recent past to be dangerously counter-productive. She defends herself in a desperate and vicious manner and follows up by telling the kids every word I said. So I am powerless now ever to say anything that might call into question Kelly's maternal abilities. Or lack thereof.

"I don't see how we can sit there," I continued, "and not mention the fact that he's going to court the next morning to be tried for possession of a dangerous weapon and assaulting police."

When she spoke, she sounded calm and her voice was soft, a sharp contrast to my impassioned rant.

"It's his birthday. Make it a good day for him. Let him at least have that."

But I was still uncertain, still reluctant to do what's difficult. I was still sitting in the boat, still frightened, rowing madly and going nowhere.

"I dunno, Kel'," I said. "I need to spend more time with this. I just need to be with it a while longer."

"Fine," she said. "You do whatever you have to. Let me know what you decide."

Tonight, I phoned my son. I'm picking him up at 5:00 on Monday. We're going out for pizza.

***

"If You Want To Walk On Water ..."

"... You've Got To Get Out Of The Boat"

That's the title of a book I've just finished reading. It was written by an American, John Ortberg, and recommended by a blogmate, over at Fumbling For Words. Thanks, Heather.
In it, the author uses the Bible story about Peter walking on water to invite us to step out of our comfort zones and trust that all will be well. The story was the basis of the sermon I wrote last month. Remember, Ms J?

Well yesterday, I tried it. Stepping out of the boat, I mean. Venturing cautiously into Terra Incognita. Here's what happened:

Richard is a man who works where I work. Until a few months ago, he was a supervisor. Occasionally in the past, Richard and I have been adversaries. He was my boss, Ms J. I don't care much for authority and I really didn't like Richard. But the political climate at Canadian National Railway is distinctly un-Canadian these days. Distinctly uncompassionate and unforgiving. Distinctly profit-driven. The atmosphere is one of fear and resentment. It's unpleasant for us peons, but it must be dreadfully stressful for lower management. So Richard fled his manager's job and returned to the ranks. Yesterday afternoon, he was part of our crew. An equal.
We rode together on the locomotive as we ferried our empty train back into the city to collect more homeward bound commuters.

"Hi Dale," he chirped as he climbed the steps into the cab. "How's the leg feeling?"

I stared straight ahead at the red signal and silently willed it to turn green.

"Fine," I mumbled.

I really didn't want to have to sit with this clown all the way back to Union Station. He was trying to be pleasant, though. I didn't feel like being pleasant. I felt like ignoring him. I felt like telling him finally, what an arrogant prick I thought he was. I looked over at him. He was turned to open the sliding window on his side of the cab. When he turned back, he was smiling.

"Isn't it a beautiful day?"

"Yeah," I said without expression. "Beautiful day."

I'm not very good at hiding my feelings, Ms J. I sounded like Dustin Hoffman in "Rainman". Richard knew something was wrong.

"Are you OK?" he asked. "You look a little disturbed." I wished he'd stop smiling.

"No, I'm fine," I lied. "It's all good."

The signal turned green and I rang the bell and pulled the throttle lever toward me. Three notches. Click, click, click. After a few seconds, the train began to move. I waited til the speedo registered ten miles per hour and then I advanced the throttle again. Click, click, click. I turned off the bell and watched the indicator lights on the speedometer as they gradually circled the face. Seventeen miles per hour. Eighteen. Nineteen. Richard was right. I was disturbed. I wanted to hate the S.O.B., but he was making it difficult. He was being nice. He's still a jerk, though. He's just trying to get me to like him. I've never liked this guy. Twenty miles per hour. And I never will.

And then came that little voice again. That still, small voice. It was nothing more than a passing thought. My conscience. The good part of me. The best part. The pure part.

"Get out of the boat. Now's the perfect time to try it."

I looked again at the speedometer. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. I performed the obligatory brake test. For safety, Ms J. We have to do it whenever we reverse direction. I closed the throttle, applied the brakes gently and continued to observe the speedo. The lights extinguished one by one as the speed decreased. At fifteen miles per hour, I released the brake and advanced the throttle again.

"If you want to walk on water, you've got to get out of the boat. Talk to him. Tell him how you're feeling. Get to know him."

My conscience was really starting to irritate me. I uncapped a bottle of water and took an angry swallow. I replaced the cap and set the plastic bottle on the little pull-out table beside me. I tried my best to ignore this ... this ... ANNOYING voice in my head. I watched a large red-tailed hawk swoop to land gently atop a telephone pole. It was graceful and precise, regal even, but I took no pleasure in it.

"Fine. Suffer then. Suffer alone because Richard's still smiling. Look at him."

I glanced over at him and he was still smiling at some private thought. He was tapping his toe in rhythm to a song in his head. The sun shone directly in his face and he had his eyes closed. He looked so comfortable there, under the sun's warm blanket.

"Screw this, then," I said in a voice that seemed loud in my own ears. I wear earplugs, Ms Journal. They make my voice seem loud in my head. I pictured myself in a little row boat on a stormy lake. Then I pictured myself climbing over the side of it. "I'm outta here."

I turned to the man in the other seat.

"Richard," I said.

But he didn't hear me. Maybe I didn't have to do this. It's not too late to get back in the boat, I reasoned. But no. I was committed now. I raised my voice against the roar of the three thousand horsepower engine.

"RICHARD!"

"Yeah?"

"Can I talk to you a minute?"

"Sure, Dale. What is it?"

So we talked. Mostly, I talked. He listened. I told him I was angry with him for being a bully when he was my supervisor. I told him I resented him telling me how to do my job when he couldn't do it himself. I told him I didn't want to be angry anymore and that I hoped he could understand and forgive me.

The time passed quickly, Ms Journal, and before we knew it, we'd arrived at Union Station. Richard listened to my words, honoured my feelings and I think, understood. I'm so glad I got out of that stupid little boat.

As he descended the steps to exit the cab, I called to him.

"Richard?"

His head popped up from behind the control console.

"Hmmmm?"

"Thanks a lot for listening. I don't hate you anymore."

He laughed it off.

"That's good to hear, Dale. I never hated you. See you at Pickering."

And he was gone.

I am so glad I found the courage to talk to him. I'm so proud of myself for doing what was right instead of what was easy. Is it easy to be angry? Is it easy to hold a grudge? To be miserable and suffer? No. Probably not. But it's easier, it seems, than getting out of that damned boat sometimes.

***

Awake all night

I'm not going to bother with sleep tonight, Ms J. I watched the air show yesterday afternoon with my sister-in-law, Linda and Sherri, my niece. Alex came too. And Christina, Sherri's friend. They all arrived chez moi around noon and together, we walked down to a park near the lake to watch the display of aerobatics performed by various planes and pilots in the Toronto skies over Lake Ontario. This is an annual event to mark the last day of the CNE. It's really fun to watch!

(Click on the pics, as always, to see them full size.)


GA, Linda, Christina, and Sherri. We could hear the planes before we saw them.

Our Snowbirds compete internationally, often beating the big, bad Yanks in their own skies. The little T-33's are trainer aircraft. They don't have the powerful engines and deafening roar that characterize the modern jet fighters, but the little red and white planes still streak across the sky in tight formation with only three feet of space between wing tips. It's thrilling to watch and makes me feel so proud!


Canada's famous "Snowbirds" precision flying team. The cream of the RCAF crop.

The show ended about 5:00. Linda and her group went home and Alex took me out to dinner. Then she treated me to a movie. We saw "The Constant Gardener." It was enjoyable enough, but we didn't leave the cinema until 12:30. It was 1:00 am by the time I dropped Alex home and came home myself. Rather than go to bed for three hours, I opted to stay up til 4:30, and then go to work.

I feel alright, really. And I'll be home again by 9:00. I'll have a nap then.

Ta!

***

For Meagan

Scout spent a week at camp this summer. Teen Ranch is a camp that features horseback riding as a regular part of the programme. The property is set in the rolling hills of Caledon, about forty-five minutes north-west of Toronto. There's a hockey/ice skating centre there as well, with a large hockey arena. Meagan's not much of a skater, but she sure loves horses. The camp has a distinct Baptist flavour. We're not Baptists either, but a teaspoon of religion mixed with a bushel of camping fun on horseback makes for fond memories and helps spirit grow. She had a brilliant time!

I've recently learned of a new programme at the ranch. It's a Father/Daughter conference and it's to be held September 16-18. It's expensive. $275. per person. According to their brochure, the weekend will feature special guest speakers. Among them will be hockey icon Paul Henderson. Henderson scored the winning goal in the most famous (and most exciting!) hockey game ever played when Team Canada defeated the USSR in a 1972 Canada/Russia seven game hockey series. I was fourteen then, in grade nine. I can't remember a time when so many Canadians rejoiced and celebrated together. It was amazing!

Canadian ice skater Barbara Underhill will speak as well. I look forward to hearing her too. She has known her fair share of triumph and tragedy, both personally and professionally.

The focus throughout the conference with be on dads and their daughters - building and maintaining healthy relationships together. It's really aimed at girls twelve and over. I emailed Meagan to ask what she thought of it.

Hey Scout. I think I'm going to register us for the father/daughter conference at Teen Ranch. It runs from Friday, Sept. 16th at 4:00 until Sun. Sept. 18 at 3:00. We'll sleep in a bunkhouse, I think. Whadda ya think?

Dad.

And she replied this way:

Yay! I'd really love to go to that father/daughter thing at Teen Ranch, Dad.
It'd be amazing if you could get to know me better. Not just know me, but
nurture my needs as a woman and as a teenager. It's a difficult time in my
life right now and it's nice to know that you'd be willing to go through
this, to get to realize what i'm going through, and help me with my
situations. That's great. I'm real happy. Anyways, e-mail me back when you
get this thingy.

~ Meg ~

It may be too late for Dan, Ms Journal. But there's still time to bolster strong bonds with my daughter. I can't bear the thought of her growing up to become anything less than happy and at peace with herself. I really believe this child has a good chance at that.


I'm the first man she's ever loved. I'm setting the bar high for her next love.

***

My Crazy Brain

I haven't been able to accomplish much this morning. I can't focus on any one activity for more than a few minutes. The kitchen sink is full of dishes. The vacuum cleaner sits abandoned in the hall downstairs. A basket of dirty clothes waits to be carried into the cellar laundry room. Maybe if I can put my scattered thoughts into written words, I'll find some peace. So here goes.

Dan. My son is first on my mind today. First, last, and always.

I haven't spoken with him or seen him since he joined his sister and me on our quest for a guitar. That was back in July. That was before I knew about his upcoming court appearance. That was before I knew his girlfriend was pregnant. I love Dan, Ms Journal. But right now, I don't like him. I don't respect him. And I just don't understand him. The feelings, it seems, are mutual. He thinks his father's an idiot. I think he's an irresponsible little shit.

I am so disappointed with that boy. I know he has some mental problems, (depression, anxiety, OCD perhaps, although I think that last one's just an act) but he doesn't seem willing even to try to help himself. He just keeps doing things to render his Life even more difficult, more painful. Instead of acknowledging the pain and feeling it, he seeks ways to circumvent it. He seeks ways to avoid it. He runs away from his troubles. His mother has taught him well. Dan uses drugs, booze, cigarettes, violence, sex, excuses, and bullshit to avoid feeling his own self-induced misery.

But I suppose we all do that, don't we? We all look for ways to avoid feeling our feelings. Some abuse drugs. Reluctantly, I raise my hand here. I used to do that. But finally, I woke up. Got help. And today, I'm clean. Some people shop to feel better. Others use sex or food or even busyness to avoid uncomfortable feelings.

My brother and I were talking once about the plight of starving Africans.

"Why do they keep having babies," Pat asked, "when they know they can't feed them?"

"Sex," I told him. "Sex feels good. Sex is escapism. It takes your mind and body away from the miseries of reality. No matter how poor or hungry you are, sex is an easy way to take your mind off your troubles, if only temporarily."

And that's what my son is doing. Maxine too, I suppose, in her own way. They hurt. Both of them. They know they haven't much to look forward to. Surely they must know Life will continue to challenge them in ways they're not able effectively to deal with. Dan imagines himself to be an adult, all grown up. Like many young people, he thinks that engaging in adult activities - smoking, drinking, using drugs, having regular sex with a live-in lover, having a baby, swaggering and acting confident - automatically makes him an adult.

I know this is patently false. I know that being an adult is much more than that. Any pair of thirteen year olds can produce a child. It's nothing new or remarkable. Being an adult is not about creating a personality for yourself, but about discovering the person you were born to be. But I'm not nineteen. I'm forty-seven. And I'm only now starting to realise this. I ought to be more patient with Dan. More compassionate. Let him discover things on his own, as I have. Or as I'm beginning to.

I haven't spoken with my son because I honestly don't know what to say to him. Last summer, when he came to live with me, our relationship was strained at best. It seemed we had very little in common. I tried to connect with him in various ways, but I wasn't particularly successful. Dan tried too, I suppose, in his own way. But as I say, it was strained. We quarreled and he fled back to his mother. He can live there without challenge, without rules, without discipline and free of consequences.

He returned to Mimico in February, ostensibly to help me when I was first injured. He provided me much more worry than help. Our relationship was fragile and stretched to its limit by his selfishness and by my self-pity. It was horribly uncomfortable. After a couple of months, he fled again. Back to Acton. Back to the madness at his mother's home.

He's my son, Ms Journal. My only son. But I'm so angry with him. So disappointed. So ... I don't know. Hurt, I guess. He was abusing drugs. I helped him to find doctors and counselors. He got in trouble on the internet, making death threats to a young lady in the U.S. The police were involved. I helped him get through that, unscathed. Then he told another girl, via msn chat, that he was planning to kill himself. Again the police were involved. He went to the hospital. I helped him again and we got through another crisis. At home later with his mother and sister, he forced them all at knife point out into the snow and locked the door. He resisted arrest and inadvertently injured a police officer. He'll appear in court on September 13th - the day after his nineteenth birthday - to stand trial. Even this can have a happy ending. My hope is that the courts will order him to undergo psychotherapy. We'll get through it, somehow.

But this latest thing, this pregnancy ... I just don't know how he'll come through this. It can't work itself out this time. A baby will come. A baby, Ms J. A Life. This one's serious. This one's a real major issue. And I just don't know what to say to him.

"Congratulations?" I won't say that. I can't. The dictionary defines congratulations as "The act of expressing joy or acknowledgment, as for the achievement or good fortune of another." Achievement? Hardly. Good fortune? I don't see it that way. And I cannot summon feelings remotely resembling "joy".

"You're totally screwed now, son? You stupid, fucking idiot?" I think it, Ms J. But of course, I would never say it.

So what do I do? What do I say? Although Pringle blood flows through his veins, it's been contaminated by his mother's Gallagher swill. He is my son. And I feel unable to communicate with him.

At work yesterday, as our empty train hurtled through the early morning darkness, I sat alone and asked God for help.

"What would you say to me, Lord?" I asked aloud. "What would you tell me to do if you were sitting with me right here? Eh? What would you tell me? Right now."

I looked around the coach and listened. I heard the familiar rumble of steel wheels on steel rails. Red warning lights flashed briefly in the window as we crossed a lonely road.

I was just about to shrug my shoulders and give up hope of ever receiving an answer when I realized there was a thought running quietly in the background of my mind. So I focused on it. I gave it my attention.

"Love Daniel. Love Maxine. Love the unborn child."

I frowned. I didn't like this idea. It would be hard. Surely, there must be another option. Something easier. Disown my son. Never speak to him again. No. That would be even harder. I tried to ignore it, but the background thought was persistent.

"Love Daniel. Love Maxine. Love the unborn child. Accept what is. There is no other option."

I sat alone in the soft glow of the overhead lights, Ms J, and I cried.

Love. It's always Love, isn't it? No matter the question, Love is always the answer. I wish I could be more open to it. I wish it weren't so difficult sometimes.

While I had the Lord's attention, I figured I might try one more little request. I spoke quietly, my voice quivering with emotion.

"Meagan. Please God. Watch out for her. Let's work together, You and I, to keep her safe, to help her learn to value herself so she can make wise choices. Please. Please."

---

Shit. Now I'm all tears and snot. I can't write any more.

***

This Morning

Today was my second full day at work. Yesterday, I arrived early to allow myself some extra time. I had way too much time, and at 4:00 a.m., a little extra time in bed is valuable beyond measure. So last night, I adjusted my alarm to wake me a half hour later. 4:15 instead of 3:45. I fell asleep with a satisfied smile.

I rose this morning when the alarm sounded. I got up, had a quick shower, and got dressed. As I wound my wrist watch, I noticed the time. 3:25. I was puzzled.

"3:25?" I thought. "How can that be?"

I thought maybe my watch had stopped so I looked at the bright red numbers on the alarm clock by my bed. 4:25. I adjusted my watch to match the bedroom clock and descended the stairs to the kitchen. That's when I noticed the clock on the microwave. 3:26. What the hell was going on? I checked the VCR clock and the one on the DVD player. 3:26 and 3:27, respectively. I looked at my watch. 4:27. According to my watch, I had to be at work in fifteen minutes. But the other clocks all gave me an hour and fifteen minutes.

I sat on the couch and removed my glasses. My eyes felt as though they were full of sand and I rubbed them with both fists. I put my glasses back on and looked again at my watch. I had adjusted it this morning. It had been exactly an hour slow. I had adjusted the bedroom alarm clock too. Last night.

And then it suddenly became clear to me. I closed my eyes again and slowly shook my head, grinning at my own carelessness. Last night, as I adjusted the alarm, I must have inadvertantly adjusted the time as well. I must have pressed the button to advance the time. One hour. In my attempt to allow myself an extra thirty minutes of slumber, I had actually robbed myself of thirty minutes!

I went back upstairs and checked the clock on the computer. It read 3:29, exactly one hour less than the watch I'd adjusted. I reset my watch to the correct time and chuckled quietly to myself.

"Well," I said aloud, "If I'm up anyway, I might as well stay up."

I sat for an hour and read some blogs. And then I wrote a little in my personal journal. Can you guess what it was that I wrote about?

It's 11:15 in the morning now. I've done my morning shift and I'm feeling a little sleepy. Maybe I'll lay down for a wee kip.

***