Enough of My Suffering, Ms J

Let's have some fun!

Here's something I received from a friend. Gary was a neighbour and boyhood chum. He now lives in Stittsville, near Ottawa. We share a similar sense of humour. Thanks, Guerre!

---

This is a refresher for some of you guys, just to keep things in order [you know what I mean] and a pretty good explanation for you girls out there. These are the rules....


International Rules of Men:

01: Under no circumstances may two men share an umbrella.

02: It is OK for a man to cry under the following circumstances: a. When a heroic dog dies to save its master. b. The moment Angelina Jolie starts unbuttoning her blouse. c. After wrecking your boss' car. d. One hour, 12 minutes, 37 seconds into "The Crying Game".

03: Any man who brings a camera to a bachelor party may be legally killed and eaten by his buddies.

04: Unless he murdered someone in your family, you must bail a friend out of jail within 12 hours.

05: If you've known a guy for more than 24 hours, his sister is off limits forever, unless you actually marry her.

06: Moaning about the brand of free beer in a buddy's fridge is forbidden. However complain at will if the temperature is unsuitable.

07: No man shall ever be required to buy a birthday present for another man. In fact, even remembering your buddy's birthday is strictly optional.

08: On a road trip, the strongest bladder determines pit stops, not the weakest.

09: When stumbling upon other guys watching a sporting event, you may ask the score of the game in progress, but you may never ask who's playing.

10: You may flatulate in front of a woman only after you have brought her to climax. If you trap her head under the covers for the purpose of flatulent entertainment, she's officially your girlfriend.

11: It is permissible to drink a fruity alcohol drink only when you're sunning on a tropical beach....and it's delivered by a topless supermodel...and it's free.

12: Only in situations of grave moral or physical peril are you allowed to kick another guy in the nuts.

13: Unless you're in prison, never fight naked.

14: Friends don't let friends wear Speedos. Ever. Issue closed.

15: If a man's fly is down, that's his problem. You didn't see anything.

16: Women who claim they "love to watch sports" must be treated as spies until they demonstrate knowledge of the game and the ability to drink as much as the other sports watchers.

17: A man in the company of a hot, suggestively dressed woman must remain sober enough to fight.

18: Never hesitate to reach for the last beer or the last slice of pizza, but not both, that's just greedy.

19: If you compliment a guy on his six-pack, you'd better be talking about his choice of beer.

20: Never join your girlfriend or wife in discussing a friend of yours, except if she's withholding sex pending your response.

21: Phrases that may NOT be uttered to another man while lifting weights: a. Yeah, Baby, Push it! b. C'mon, give me one more! Harder! c. Another set and we can hit the showers!

22: Never talk to a man in a public toilet unless you are on equal footing: i.e. both urinating, both waiting in line, etc. For all other situations, an almost imperceptible nod is all the conversation you need.

23: Never allow a telephone conversation with a woman to go on longer than you are able to have sex with her. Keep a stopwatch by the phone. Hang up if necessary.

24: The morning after you and a girl who was formerly "just a friend" have carnal drunken monkey sex, the fact that you're feeling weird and guilty is no reason for you not to nail each other again before the discussion about what a big mistake it was occurs.

25: It is acceptable for you to drive her car. It is not acceptable for her to drive yours.

26: Thou shalt not buy a car in the colors of brown, pink, lime green, orange or sky blue.

27: The girl who replies to the question "What do you want for Christmas?" with "If you loved me, you'd know what I want!" gets an Xbox. End of story.

28: There is no reason for guys to watch Ice Skating or Men's Gymnastics. Ever.

***

One Tiny Concession

It's incremental sometimes, isn't it? The shift, Ms J, from not accepting something, to accepting it. It comes in tiny bits, but it does accumulate. Eventually.

I began my Christmas shopping this morning. I bought some socks for Dan and Scout. And some sweets to fill their Christmas stockings. I got Meagan a copy of Rolling Stone magazine featuring her idol, Billie Joe Armstrong on the cover. Mr. Armstrong is the lead vocalist of Meagan's favourite pop group - Green Day.

I don't much care for Christmas shopping, Ms J. I don't fancy shopping at all, really. I don't like the crowded, noisy shops and I nearly always feel as though I've wasted masses of time as I return, sometimes empty-handed to the car in the parking lot.

I haven't always been such a Scrooge. When the kids were little, I really enjoyed Christmas. But now, Meagan is thirteen. Dan is nineteen. They're too old for toys. Or the toys they want are too expensive. I don't know what on earth to buy for them. Rather than enjoy the shopping and wrapping and decorating inherent in the season, these things have lately begun to feel like unavoidable obligations that weight heavy on my soul. Where is Jesus in all this glittering tinsel? Where is peace? Not in the shopping mall, that's a fact. And what about Maxine? Am I supposed to buy gifts for her too? Is she part of my family now? Ugh!

So there I was this morning, pushing my shopping cart sullenly around Wal-mart and scowling at the morons who dared get in my way. I grabbed a big package of socks and tossed it into the empty cart. Black socks. Good enough for Dan, I thought. Yeah. He probably needs socks. He always needs socks.

A lady behind me bumped into my ankle with her cart.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "I'm terribly sorry! Did I hurt you?"

I closed my eyes and shook my head slightly. Why don't people watch where they're going? Stupid idiot.

"No. I'm fine," I mumbled in a monotone.

I took a couple of quick steps, ostensibly to get away from her, and turned a corner at the end of the aisle. I stopped and blinked. I was staring at a rack of bath robes. Men's bath robes.

Kelly bought me a bath robe before Dan was born. It was summer, 1986. I remember she said I would need something soft to cuddle the baby. Velour. Royal blue. I still have it. I still wear it sometimes. And when I wear it, I think of my son. Tiny. Helpless. Perfect. How proud I was to hold him!

Cautiously, I approached the chrome rack with its hanging robes in various colours. My hand reached out to touch a blue one. Royal blue. It wasn't velour, but it was still very soft. The sign above the rack said, "SALE PRICED $39.95"

I wonder if Dan has ...?
I wonder if Dan would like ...?
He could probably use something soft like this ...
You know, to cuddle the ... baby.

I felt tears coming again. Stupid tears. What the hell's the matter with me? I'm behaving like a woman, I thought. Or a baby. And I looked away. Screw it. Where's the door? I'm outta here.

But I didn't leave. I didn't even move from the spot, Ms J. I just stood there frowning and chewing the inside of my cheek. I was blocking the aisle. Other shoppers had to detour around me, but I didn't care. I just stood there, waiting. Waiting for ... something. I don't know. A thought, perhaps. A sign. A message. Courage, maybe?

I stared at that stupid robe until I could no longer see it, until I had lost my focus entirely. I must have appeared like a zombie. Motionless. Staring but not seeing. And then it came to me. A thought occurred to me. And I spoke the words quietly.

"Well, you'll have to start somewhere. Out of the boat, then. Into the storm. Go for it. Don't be a chickenshit."

I bought the robe, Ms Journal. I bought that royal blue bath robe for my son. So he'll have something soft to wear when he cuddles his child.

As I drove home, I pictured myself explaining to Dan on Christmas. "Mum bought me a robe before you were born, Dan. She said I'd need something soft to cuddle you with. Now you'll need something soft ..."

In my mind's eye, I could see my son smiling. And I smiled too.

It's a start, Ms J. At least it's a start.

***

A Little Child The Saviour Came

The baptismal hymn was "A Little Child The Saviour Came".

Reverend Linda baptised an infant this morning. A little girl. Her name is Rayna, and I'd put her age at no more than six weeks. Rayna's parents stood there at the altar with the godparents. They all looked uncomfortable. And they all looked proud. Linda held the wide-eyed but silent little girl and turned to face the congregation. She dipped her hand in the baptismal font and stroked the child's delicate head three times.

"I baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of The Holy Spirit."

The precious and adorable child remained passive and serene while her parents beamed. Grandparents in the front row exchanged approving smiles. And I was reduced to a mass of tears and mucous. Rayna's mum and dad have no idea of the joys and sorrows that lie ahead for them in their new role as parents. Their Lives will be forever changed.

Babies, Ms Journal. I fall asleep thinking of babies. And babies are first on my mind when I wake again in the morning. Dan's baby. My grandchild.

Today is the first Sunday in the season of Advent. It's the time when we Christians prepare ourselves for the celebration that marks the holiest day of the year - Christmas. The birth of Jesus Christ, God made flesh.

In her sermon, Linda spoke about the birth of Jesus and told us how His birth and His Life were, at the time, largely ignored. The world wasn't ready yet to receive the message of good news that He taught.

"Are we ready, today?" was her unspoken query. "Are you ready?"

Carolyn Baker was the lay reader this morning. She read from the Gospel of Mark. In it, Jesus cautions His disciples to be alert. Do the right thing. No one knows when Judgement Day will come.

Therefore, keep awake — for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly. And what I say to you, I say to all: Keep awake.

I felt myself nodding my head sanctimoniously and adopting a grave expression as though I alone were ready to accept these Truths. And suddenly, a strange thought came to me.

What if Dan's baby is Jesus? We've been waiting 2000 years for Him to come again. What if Jesus comes to us as Maxine and Dan's baby? The first time round, He was born to an impoverished, uneducated carpenter and a teenage girl. He was born among farm animals in a barn. Can you imagine a more inauspicious beginning?

But this was ridiculous, Ms J. I shook my head to dispel these silly thoughts and tried to focus again on Linda's sermon. She was talking about God and how He resides in everyone and everything.

"You'll meet God in every face you see," she was saying. "Friends, neighbours, relatives, students, everyone."

I drew my breath in sharply and turned my face up to the wooden cross there behind the choir.

"... and in my son and his girlfriend," I thought. "And in their baby. The child WILL be Jesus!"

I shook my head at my stubbornness. Fat, salty tears fell silently on my sweater.

I can't, Lord. I can't accept the impending birth of this bastard child. Not yet.

My next thoughts came to me unbidden. Jumbled. Unexpected. I believe God wisely took advantage of my vulnerability right then to put those thoughts there.

"Impending" birth. The child is not born yet. Not til April. There's still time. Lots of time. Patience. Be gentle with yourself. You love your son. You will grow to love his son.

I was beginning to sob, Ms Journal. I wanted to flee the church and race home. But I didn't go. I stayed there and allowed my feelings to wash over me. I hoped my tears might cleanse my stubborn soul and open my heart, but it was not to be. Not yet, anyway.

I glanced surreptitiously at the people around me. They were all watching the preacher.

"Advent is a time for new beginnings," she was saying. "Make the most of your Life everyday because you never know what tomorrow will bring. And keep awake."

I kept my head bowed during the benediction and focused on my breathing to calm myself. I didn't stay long after the service, Ms J. I waved good-bye to Linda and escaped by the back door.

It's getting harder and harder to ignore Dan and Maxine.

***

Singin' at The Coffee House

The area of New York City known as Greenwich Village was popular in the 1960's. Folk musicians like Arlo Guthrie, Bob Dylan, and The Mamas and the Papas - to name just a few, used to play there at small pubs and "coffee houses". People who came to listen heard history in the making.

About six times a year, our church hosts an open mike "coffee house" here in Mimico and opens the floor to anyone who'd like to perform. We've seen story tellers and poets. We've even seen a couple of attempts (intrepid souls!) at stand-up comedy. Mostly though, it's music that draws a crowd. Tonight, there was a turkey dinner served in the basement gym followed by the Coffee House in a smaller room next door.


Feelin' the music.

Cyril McPherson and I were first on stage. The crowd numbered perhaps fifty people. We did the same four songs we performed last weekend at Alex's fundraiser. Alex raised over $1100. toward her trip to Guyana. Cy and I sounded pretty good, I think. We were much better this time than we were last week. Practice makes perfect, no?


Enjoying Cy's guitar solo. We didn't use the microphone. It was turned off.

I'm glad we went first. The acts that followed were better than us. Much better. A couple of the musicians were absolutely fabulous, Ms J. It was a really good show, perhaps the best I've ever seen at any of our Coffee House nights. The music was mostly folk, gospel and country, although one fellow did a couple of blues numbers that had heads bobbing. He played the guitar and harmonica. Later, he played a mandolin and sang a few Gordie Lightfoot songs while the audience sang along. Everybody knows Lightfoot. The man is a living legend. A Canadian music icon.

As I've said before, Ms Journal, I'm not much of a singer. That's not one of my spiritual gifts. Acting is, I think. But singing? Not so much. But I don't care, really. I sing because I like to sing. It makes me happy. I dance for the same reason. My dancing isn't, as Dad would say, "worth a pinch of coon shit". But I express joy through dance and song. These activities fill my heart. It may not be pretty, Ms J, but I can't help feeling that it pleases God to see me happy. Hell, maybe He's up there laughing His arse off at me. Whatever. I think it pleases Him.

Because it pleases me. And it may even bring joy to someone else. Who knows? Maybe watching me express my joy might help someone else lose their inhibitions enough to express their own joy. It could be contagious, Ms J. In a good way.


Straining to reach the high notes. Some I hit. Some I didn't. The crowd offered applause anyway. And I smiled. A lot.

I had planned to take Meagan with me tonight to the dinner and later to the Coffee House. I wish she'd been there to see me on stage.

I'm thinking of you, Scout. I'm missing you a little. I hope you're being a good girl and helping Mum with the move. I'll see you next weekend. I love you to the moon and back.

G' night, Ms J.

***

Daily Diary - Mount Forest

November 23, 2005

Wednesday. I left about 10:30 this morning to drive to Mt. Forest. It was lunch time when I arrived. We didn’t do too much today. I fell asleep on the couch after dinner. We went to bed around 11:00.

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November 24, 2005

Thursday. It snowed last night, Ms J. A lot. We woke this morning to find about ten cm of light, fluffy snow on everything. It was really pretty. The storm continued after breakfast as Dad and I started the snowblower and cleaned out the driveway.


Snowblowers make Life easier in Winter.

We were nearly finished when the snowblower ran out of gas. I pushed the heavy machine into the garage and turned to fetch the gas can. As I turned, the pocket of my coat caught on the handle of the snowblower and ripped my coat.

“That’s OK,” Dad said. “Mum will fix it.”

When it comes to sewing, Ms J, my mum can fix anything. Shirts, trousers, bedspreads and pillow cases. And winter coats.

After lunch, Dad said, “Let’s make some muffins. C’mon boy. Help your dear ol’ dad make some muffins. Or do you want to make some cookies?”

Mum was preparing for a church bazaar and she needed some candy to take for the sale.

“Why don’t you make some peanut brittle?” she asked. “I’ll take it to the church.”

Dad feigned outrage.

“The church? Like hell you will! If Dale and I make peanut brittle, we won’t be sharing it with the G.D. church.”

He didn’t use the abbreviation, Ms Journal. He used the full expression. It hurt my ears a little to hear him say the “GD” church. He was trying to bother Mum and me. We didn’t react to it though.

“Fine then,” Mum said. “Make two batches. I’ll take one to the church and we’ll keep the other here.

Dad was OK with that idea, so that’s what we did. We made “Microwave Peanut Brittle.” It was delicious!

After supper, Dad and I washed the dishes while Mum sewed my torn coat. It looks brand new again.


Mum in her sewing room. See the reflective stripes on my coat?

I was planning to come home this afternoon, but the weather was not good at all. Snow squalls and gusty winds continued all day. Better safe than sorry. I’ll stay with Mum and Dad.

---

November 24, 2005

I was hoping to collect Meagan Friday afternoon. While Mum and Dad watched television, I called Kelly last night to ask if I could pick up my girl after school.

“Well, no,” said Kelly. “Not really. We’re moving this weekend, eh? We’re moving to Norval.”

And she talked. And talked. And talked. She talked about Maxine. (Still in a home in Guelph.) She talked about Dan. (Still working at the drugstore. Still disrespectful of his mother.) And she talked about Meagan. (Not doing so well in school. And very resentful of Tim. Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not my father!) And about their dogs. (They’re not coming with them when they move. Too noisy. Leave messes all over the house.)

Kelly talked for nearly an hour on Dad’s phone bill. I tried a few times to tell her good-bye, but she ignored me and kept on talking. Kelly is very verbose when she’s nervous. I get the feeling that Kelly knows she hasn’t been living very well lately and she’s embarrassed by it.

She spoke at length about Dan.

“He’s not allowed to use the phone. My phone bill was $600. last month from him phoning Maxine twenty times a day.”

My phone bill is about $70. Ms J -- For a month.

“I’m really getting fed up with him,” she continued. “I told him he has to give me a copy of his work schedule. He told me he was going to work one day last week and the drugstore called here looking for him. I don’t know where he was, but he wasn’t at work.”

“I told him he and Maxine can stay with us for three months after the baby’s born. I’ll watch to see if they’re caring for it or not. And I called the Children’s Aid Society. They’ll be calling on him as well. Surprise visits. They’ve got three months to find a place of their own, Dale. I don’t want them with us. It’s just too stressful. I want to spend more time with Meagan and Emily. I don’t want Meagan to end up like Dan. Or like Maxine and pregnant at seventeen.”

There are some things, Ms J, that don’t need to be spoken. Mum says Kelly wants me to be afraid. She wants me to share her stress. No thank you, Kelly. I don’t want your crazy Life.

Snow squalls continued intermittently today. It would have been unwise to set out on treacherous roads, so I spent another night at Mum’s. It was the right thing to do. It was still snowing hard when we went to bed. Big, fat snowflakes.

---

November 25, 2005

Friday. I’m home, Ms J.

I left Mum’s right after lunch.


Cleaning off the car before the trip home. I hated to leave.


Still cloudy. Snowing off and on.

The roads were snowy and icy. Driving was stressful for the first half of the journey. I saw cars and trucks in the ditch. Police and tow trucks displayed flashing lights at a few locations. I drove slowly and carefully.


Here comes the plough! He's going north. I'm going south.

“Phone us as soon as you get home,” Dad told me. “So we’ll know you’re safe.”


Stopped for coffee and gas. 81.2 cents per litre.

My route took me right past Kelly’s new home in the tiny hamlet of Norval, so I stopped there to look at the place. Tim was there with Baby Emily. They were waiting for the gas company to arrive and turn on the gas. Tim saw me and opened the door and called to me.

“Hey Dale! C’mon up and have a look at the place. It’s pretty empty right now, but we’ll be moving in on Sunday.”

I went up the stairs and in the door. It’s quite large, their new place. It’s a shit hole, but it’s a large shit hole. Scratched and filthy hardwood floors. Yellow nicotine stains on the walls and ceiling fans. Cracks in walls and ceilings. Chipped paint. The smell of stale cigarette smoke.

Tim was excited to show it to me.

“Huge, eh?” he bragged.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s um, really er … big, Tim. It’s huge.”

He took me upstairs to show me the bedrooms.

“Huge rooms, eh?”

“Yeah,” I repeated. “Huge.”

Kelly is good at making a house a home. She’ll get things sorted out there. She’ll make it quite nice.

I wonder if there are any kids Meagan’s age who live nearby. I wonder how and where she’ll go to school. And I wonder how Dan will get to work. It’s about a twenty-five minute drive to the drugstore in Acton.

***

Good News This Time

I called Pat last night. I told him I planned to come out to his place tonight to clean our guns. Pat’s my brother. I helped him begin construction on his gazebo up north two weeks ago. I’ve been caught up in other things lately and I …

What, Ms J? Guns? Yes, that’s what I said. Yes, we have guns. Small calibre rifles we have used in the past for hunting small game. Groundhogs, specifically. Some call them woodchucks. Farmers call them a dreadful nuisance.

Groundhogs live in burrows in hay fields. Sometimes, a cow or horse will step into the hole, breaking a leg. Often, the mound of dirt left from the groundhog’s excavation damages farm machinery. The farmer is unable to see the mound in a tall crop of hay or grain. So Pat and I have made annual trips to a friend’s farm to hunt and kill these pests. Dad used to take us when we were kids. He taught us how to shoot and he taught us gun safety.

“Don’t ever point a gun at anything you don’t want to shoot,” he’d tell us.

And “Guns are tools, like hammers and screwdrivers. They’re designed to do a job and they do it well. Guns are designed to injure and kill. A gun will kill a human just as easily as it kills a poor groundhog.”

And so we hunted, Ms Journal. We hunted with Dad until his legs grew old and tired. I remember the first time I asked Dad to come with us and he refused.

“Why not, Dad?” I asked and his answer made me sad.

“I can’t take all that walking anymore. It’s just too much for me.”

That was the first hint that my father was growing old. Old, Ms J. I still remember that day. Dad looked a little embarrassed. And we never spoke of it afterwards.

Anyway, what was I on about before I dashed off a tangent? My brother. That’s right. I left him a phone message that I’d like to pop over tonight to clean our rifles and put them away for the winter. Today, his wife called me to say I was welcome to come. Linda and I had a brief conversation.

“I saw your ex in town yesterday.”

“Did you?” I said. “Where’d you see her?”

“In Georgetown,” said Linda. “At Tim Horton’s.”

“Tim Horton’s”, Ms J, is the name of a chain of coffee shops. There’s at least one Tim Horton’s in every little town and village in Canada, it seems. Acton and Georgetown are neighbouring towns. Pat lives in Georgetown. Kelly lives in Acton, about fifteen minutes further down the road.

“Did you speak with her?” I asked.

“Yeah. Well, not really. She talked. And I listened. She stood there at our table and talked for nearly an hour. Did you know she’s planning to move from Acton?”

I said Meagan had told me they were going to move to Oshawa.

“Oshawa? No, Kelly said they planned to rent a spot in Georgetown. Norval, actually. Didn’t she tell you?”

“No,” I said, “she never bothers to tell me anything. What else did she tell you?”

Linda drew in her breath and prefaced her answer with a big sigh.

“Pretty much everything, I guess. I mean, I hadn’t seen Kelly for about five years or so. I guess she felt she had to bring me up to date.”

“Was she alone, Linda?”

“Nope. Emily was with her. And two men. That’s the first time I ever met Emily. She’s cute, eh?”

“Yes, she’s a cutie. An hour, Linda? She was there for an hour?”

“Mmm-hmm. She rambled on about all kinds of stuff. I wanted to visit with my friends who were there from out of town. We’d gone to Tim’s to sit and visit. Kelly stood by our table and talked … just talked and talked. I nodded my head and asked a couple of questions, but boy that girl can sure talk.”

Yup, Ms Journal. That woman can sure talk. It’s a shame really. She has virtually NOTHING to say.

So they’re not moving to Oshawa. They’re actually moving closer to Mimico and not further away. That’s a good thing. But still I wonder what Dan will do. If he goes with them, he’ll have a hard time getting to work, although I suppose he could hitchhike.

At some point, Kelly will have to let me know her new address and phone number. I hope to see Meagan this coming weekend. She’ll have more information, hopefully.

In other news, I went to visit another sister yesterday. Jill. I hadn’t seen Jill in a long time. Months, I suppose. Pity, really. Jill lives the closest of all my siblings. My sister Donna lives nearby too. I wonder why I don’t often see her either? Anyway, I’ll tell you about Jill.

Jill’s my sister. My little sister. June’s twin. They’re four years my junior. Jill lost a breast to cancer a few years ago. She’s married and has two young children. A girl, Erin, who’s just turned five and a little boy, Jason, who’s three. I love my sister. But I am not fond of those kids.

Jill’s kids are … well, the word obstreperous comes to mind. Let me look up the meaning to be sure it’s appropriate.

Dictionary.com offers this definition:

ob·strep·er·ous

adj.

1. Noisily and stubbornly defiant.
2. Aggressively boisterous.

Yup. That’s about right. The last few times I’ve visited Jill, her kids have completely spoiled my time there. They shriek and bellow and fight and argue. They demand – DEMAND! – attention. And Jill does nothing to make them behave. She’s the parent. She has to be there. I, on the other hand, do not. I don’t need to tolerate that noise. I’m not used to it. I live alone, Ms J. So I purposely stayed away for a while.

I visited Pat. And Helen. And June. And Donna. But I avoided Jill. I felt guilty for doing so, but I honestly could not deal with the noise level there. How could I visit with my sister when Erin was demanding her mother’s attention and Jason was lying on his back on the kitchen floor, screaming at the ceiling?

But yesterday, my guilt forced me to return for another attempt at a visit.

It wasn’t too bad at all, Ms J. I was surprised. Pleasantly! The kids were fairly well-mannered. And Jill, for her part, seemed genuinely interested in keeping a quiet atmosphere that was conducive to conversation. I was there for two hours. We had a nice visit. Perhaps now that the kids have gotten a bit older, and Jill has begun to take steps to maintain a level of order, I may visit my sister more often.

I’ve missed her.

Tomorrow morning, I’m off to Mt. Forest to see Mum and Dad for a couple of days.
See you soon, Ms J!

---

I'll leave you with some pics from my trip to "The Land" with Pat:


We began our journey with a flat tire. Pat was really angry.


A young larch tree. Larch trees lose their needles in the fall. They were the last splash of colour in the bush around Pat's retreat.


Pat fixes a rafter to the top roof member. We worked in the cold until after dark.


He stood there and ignored the cold rain. My brother is a hardier soul than I, Ms J. I was nearly frozen. No, that's not the moon. It's a raindrop caught in the camera's flash.

***

More Thoughts About Dan

Sometimes, Ms Journal, church really hurts. Yesterday morning was one of those times. I can't even remember clearly what Linda's sermon was about, but it seemed to speak to my heart. Even the hymns and prayers seemed to invite me to let go of my anger and disappointment in my wayward son, and move toward forgiveness, acceptance, and Love. The tears rolled freely and copiously down my cheeks throughout most of the service.

Dan is my son. He's nineteen. His recent past has involved drug addictions, mental illness, court appearances, violence. His mother introduced him to the daughter of a friend late last winter and they've become a couple. Maxine. Maxine's mother is an alcoholic. Maxine has, I believe, fetal alcohol syndrome. She's mildly retarded. When Maxine's home Life became difficult, Kelly (my ex-wife) invited her to live with them. Dan and Maxine soon became bunk mates. Maxine now carries my son's baby in her seventeen year old womb. The child is due in April.

I am angry. I am hurt and disappointed. I had hoped for something better for my son. But like Girl Alex and, I suppose, most young people, Dan prefers to suffer Life the hard way. Yes, he's had some emotional and mental problems. I am aware of that. I am compassionate, but only up to a point. Sooner or later, one must take responsibility for one's own situation and act to improve things. But not Dan. He has stumbled from the path and continued to crash stubbornly through Life's brambles. He has no education. He has a low-paying job at a local drugstore. And he has taken a retarded girl as his beloved and gotten her pregnant.

What will he do now, Ms J? How will he live? And how will he care for two children (the infant and its mother) when he cannot look after himself?

Luckily, Dan has all the answers. He's nineteen. He's probably not concerned in the least. He's got it all figured out. The Truth, Ms Journal, as I see it, is this:

The boy hasn't sense enough to know how dire his situation is, or how desperate it may become.

I am an adult. I'm able to see the potential for hardship and heartache in the months ahead. I worry about my son. And yes, I think about the unborn child, too. My grandchild. In Truth, I don't think much about Maxine. Isn't that awful? I just don't feel anything for this poor waif. Nothing. My secret wish is that she might just quietly vanish, taking the child with her. But I don't think that will happen. Daniel is, according to his sister, trying to demonstrate responsibility, albeit too late to prevent the birth of a child. He's suggested recently that he'll probably marry Maxine.

God help them both.

I see the folly in that from personal experience. I married the first girlfriend I ever had. We had children together. I didn't love Kelly, but I was too inexperienced even to know it at the time. I just wanted to be a grown-up and get married and be a daddy. But at least I waited until I was married, and had a good job before I became a daddy. And it was still very difficult.

What about Christmas, Ms J? What will happen this year? I hope it's not as sad and sorry a Christmas as it was last year. Remember? I'll never forget. For more than ten years, Kelly and I have shared Christmas with Dan and Meagan. One year, I'd have the kids on Christmas Eve and the next year, I'd have them Christmas Day. What will happen this year? Do I buy gifts for Dan? Do I buy gifts for Maxine? As I say, I don't even like her. Dan's angry with me. I'm angry with him. Meagan loves us both. And Kelly ... Don't get me started, Ms J.

Everything's changing. Getting complicated. Kelly's planning to move at the end of this month. So says Meagan. To Oshawa. Dan and Maxine are a package now. I can't have Dan without seeing this girl and her swollen abdomen. I don't want to see that, Ms Journal. I just don't want to look at it. At all. Moot point, though. Dan doesn't want to see me. And this baby ... The baby will arrive in the spring. What then?

Will Kelly move into Tim's mother's home? Tim, Kelly, Meagan, Emily. Four temporary houseguests. That will be stressful. And what of my boy and his girlfriend? Where will they live? How will they live? Will they move in with Tim's mother along with the rest of them? Or will Dan find an apartment to share with Maxine? He earns about $800. a month, Ms J. It will cost at least $500. a month to rent a crappy flat above a store in Acton.

You may tire of hearing about Dan's challenges, and about my struggle to accept these inevitable changes, Ms Journal. But I make no apologies. I will continue to type out my thoughts and feelings until it begins to make sense to me. And that may well take a long, long time.

You know, Ms J, when I talk to you, I know God is listening too.

***

Much I Do About Nothing

OK. So I’m eating my words. And I must say, Ms J, they’re a tad bitter.

The fundraiser was quite a success. The final tally is not yet in, but there were forty people in attendance at $10. a head. There were raffle tickets sold. And drinks and cookies. I think it went really well.

Cyril and I began the night’s entertainment. We sang four songs:

· “God and Man”, an old blues song by Brownie McGhee & Sonny Terry
· “You Never Even Call Me By My Name” written by the late Steve Goodman and made a moderate country hit in the 70’s by David Allan Coe

And two folk songs by John Prine:

· “Christmas in Prison”
· and “That’s the Way That the World Goes Round

If you’re not familiar with the music of Steve Goodman or John Prine, I highly recommend either of these talented musicians. Prine is an amazing lyricist. As Cy and I sang his song last night, I thought of how worried I’d been and how everything had come out fine anyway.

That’s the way that the world goes round,
You’re up one day, the next you’re down
It’s a half an inch of water and you think you’re gonna drown
That’s the way that the world goes round.

So true, Ms J. So true.

In total, there were five different musical acts: A young man played (made noise, really) with his highly amplified electric guitar, a young lady played two incredible numbers on the piano, another young man entertained us with an African drum (he was awesome!) and Girl Alex and a friend performed The Eagles’ “Hotel California”. G.A. played her acoustic guitar while her friend sang the words. It’s a popular song and the audience sang along. Then it was time for our play.

It was really quite well done. There were a couple of missed cues, a few tiny glitches in our lines and one late lighting cue, but all in all, it was pretty doggone good. Especially, considering the fact that we’d only had about four rehearsals! The audience was receptive and clapped and laughed appropriately.

Yesterday, I wrote “Church people will attend this event. My friends. People who've seen me on stage before. I have a reputation to protect. I don't want to look like an idiot.”

My friends, Ms Journal. Church people. They are very forgiving, very understanding. They’re my friends!

It’s a half an inch of water and you think you’re gonna drown…

That’s Life, isn’t it? That’s the way that the world goes round.

***

Everything the Hard Way

Why do kids want to do things the hard way? Why won't they consider the possibility that adults have some experience in Life and perhaps have discovered a few shortcuts?

Alex wants to use pre-recorded music in the play to separate the scenes. A nice idea. However, she STILL has not found someone to play the music and stop the music at appropriate times. This uncertainty adds MASSIVE amounts of stress to actors who already have enough to worry about.

"Maybe we could do it without music, G.A." I told her last night. "It just makes things more complicated. Maybe you might consider keeping it simple."

But she's determined to have music. So we will do our best. But when the music begins late or not at all, or doesn't stop when it's supposed to, it will be the actors who look and feel foolish, not her.

Last night we met at the church to rehearse. Dress rehearsal. It was to begin at 7:30. I had to get angry and yell at people before we finally began to rehearse. It was a quarter to nine. We've had very few rehearsals, Ms J. We really need the practice.

Someone arrived at the church last night with speakers and amplifier and microphones. It's professional quality stuff. Way more power and gadgetry than we need for a few songs in a church gymnasium. Heavy, heavy equipment. Yards of cable.

"I'll have to take this home tonight," said Alex after we'd fumbled our way through the play once. "I can't leave it here. It's expensive equipment. I'm just borrowing it from a friend."

Of course, it was assumed I'd be driving Alex and Sky home and that I'd help them carry all that crap up the stairs and load it into my car and take it to their place fifteen minutes away where I'd help them unload it all and carry it into their apartment. It would have to come back to the church again the very next day.

"I have a key for the Sunday School room, G.A.," I told her. "Why not lock it in there overnight? It'll be safe there, I promise. Anyway, I'll be back here in the morning to help build our Christmas creche. I'll be able to keep my eye on it for you."

But again, the girl was determined to do it the hard way.

"No. I really think it should go home with me and Sky. I just don't feel right about leaving this stuff here."

I was so angry, I wanted to scream. The Sunday School room is about twenty feet from the gym. But she wanted to carry all that shit upstairs and load it in the car and take it to her place, only to bring it all back again in a few hours.

I just now received a call from Sky.

"Do you have any containers we can mix juice in? We want to serve juice at the thing tonight."

I suggested buying bottles or cartons of juice instead. Apple juice. Orange juice. Whatever.

"Wouldn't that be easier than mixing juice? I asked.

"No. We've already bought a bunch of cans of frozen juice. We want to use them."

I offered to buy the frozen juice from them and suggested again that pre-packaged ready to drink juice would be much simpler.

"OK. Never mind, then. We'll find somebody who has some juice containers."

GGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I know, Ms J. I'm over-reacting. But I've given Alex so much of my time - my vacation time - driving her here and there and letting her use my computer and helping her plan this event. I'm stressed out about it. I want her to do some thinking on her own. And I'm sick to death of helping her do everything the hard way.

Church people will attend this event. My friends. People who've seen me on stage before. I have a reputation to protect. I don't want to look like an idiot. But my young friend thinks it will all fall together, with a bare minimum of planning.

Don't get me wrong, Ms J. I like Alex. She's very important to me. But I will be so relieved tonight when this is finally over.

***

The Bench

Tonight's our dress reheasal for Alex's show. Tomorrow's the big day. It hasn't been well organised at all. But I'll be there to offer my support for a friend who's hoping to realise her dream of traveling to Guyana to help needy people. That seems like a worthy cause to me.

The play is not a typical one. It's actually an assortment of scenes from a play we did together about five years ago. I'd tell you the name of it, Ms J, but since we're not paying royalties to the playwright, I'd better not mention it.

I will however share a piece with you. It's a monologue. Girl Alex will be alone on stage. She'll enter and sit on a bench and relate this story to what I hope will be a large and appreciative audience. It's one of my very favourite parts of the show. The piece is called simply "The Bench".

---

There is a bench in the city where I live. Its structure is simple - three slabs of smooth, grey granite. And, having checked with a compass to be certain, I can tell you that this bench has been carefully placed so that the long sides face east and west and the short ends point north and south.

This sturdy seat has been placed with purpose on the highest ground of the highest hill in the city. So that when the sky is clear on a summer's morning, you can see almost sixty miles in three directions.

This bench is, in fact, a tombstone in a cemetary. And I would take you there to sit if I could.

You wouldn't feel uncomfortable sitting on it, I promise. You wouldn't even notice what it was at first. It's right on the edge of a curved lane that runs through the burial grounds. It's placed so that you're clearly invited to use it. The placement of the bench, the consciousness of the view - all say that someone went to a lot of trouble to be useful in death. A parting gesture of quiet generosity has been made.

Funerals have a certain narcissism to them, a focus on self: what I want for MY funeral and what I want for MY epitaph - a very human holding on to identity as long as breath and granite last. But to me, tombstones are markers of loneliness.

But this bench is another story. Unique. First of all, there's no name inscribed on it. No conventional epitaph. No dates. Just an open invitation to sit and think. What marks this grave, is the gift of silent companionship that bridges loneliness.

This bench has become a spiritual retreat for me over the years. And I know I'm not the only one to use it, because I once found a note taped under the bench. Not for me: for a young woman from a young man who was in Love with her and wrote her careless poetry with great passion. And no, I'm not sorry I snooped; and yes, I put it back as I found it; and no, I didn't hide in the bushes and wait to see who came for the note. Secret lovers have enough problems as it is.

But it was on this bench, the summer morning after one of those "milestone" birthdays, that I came to that moment when one crosses over from the abstract intellectual knowledge that all human beings die ... to the active realization that I will die. Me. I will not be. Sooner or later.

Not only did I realize that I will die, but I walked away thinking ... well ... It's OK.

I connect that moment of enlightenment with the peculiar sanctuary of the bench and whoever provided it. This bench will last hundreds of years. Many people will sit on it and think not of the name of its owner, but of the nameless joys of this sweet Life ...

and the mystery of death ...

and how utterly amazing it all is.

And that somehow ...

sometimes ...

things are just as they should be.

---

Amen to that, eh Ms J?

***

A Day For Myself

Call me selfish. I don't care. I really needed a day here alone. I didn't have to go anywhere, do anything, see anyone. It was ALL ABOUT ME today. And it was faaaaaan-tastic! I did what I wanted to do.

Slept til 9:00. Didn't shave or shower this morning. So what? It was my day. My home. My Life. I finished putting plastic film on my windows this morning to keep out the cold draughts. I put some classic country music on the stereo and sang with the twang while I did my thang. I dusted and tidied this little office.

I installed an external hard drive this afternoon and then fiddled for hours with the computer. I've got an extra eighty gigabytes of storage space now, Ms J. I copied all my music and photos to the new drive. I did it by myself. No nerd required, thank you. I enjoyed mucking about.

I drank a whole bottle of wine. All by myself. Just finished it, actually.

I made lasagne today. I think I'll take it over to Bob and his poor ol' mum. Olga's got the big "C". But I told you that already, didn't I? She's a rather private person. Bob says she doesn't want people to know she's ill. Olga's a beautiful spirit, but I can't understand for the Life of me (or her) why she'd purposely deny herself the support of friends and neighbours during this time. If it were me, I'd tell everyone.

Remember when I broke my leg, Ms J? I told as many people as I could. Not because I wanted pity or sympathy. Well, OK, maybe I did a little. That's the Truth. But mostly I knew I'd be glad of a bit of help. It's not easy to ask for help, but sometimes it seems there's no choice. Out of the boat. Into the storm. I'll remember Olga (and Bob) in my prayers tonight.

Alex's fundraiser seems to be gaining momentum. After a horribly shaky start, the play is starting to look better. Good, even. I decided today what I'd wear for costumes and laid my clothes out ready to take to the church. Tomorrow's our last rehearsal. A dress rehearsal. The show goes up on Saturday evening. 7:30. Give or take.

G.A. had a band lined up to play. Friends of hers from high school. Yesterday, they called her and cancelled. But today, my friend Cy called to tell me he'd be able to sing and play at Alex's event. Cy just lives up the street from the church.

"Yeah," he said, "we can do the songs we've practiced already. You know, the ones we're doing for the coffee house on the 26th."

Cyril and I have rehearsed about four songs which we plan to sing at the coffee house open mike night at the church on November 26th. I am a singer, Ms J. I sing. But to be clear, I do not sing well. I sing in the car. And in the shower sometimes. But I have never been told I have any talent for singing. I don't care. I like to sing. And so I'll be singing and acting at Alex's fundraiser. I'll be acting as though I can sing. I hope the audience enjoys it. Too bad if they don't. No refunds.

The bathtub is full of steaming water and bubbles. Scented candles cast wobbly shadows on the tiled walls. I can hear the bubbles crackling from where I sit now.

Sigh ....

I've run out of things to tell you, Ms Journal. My head's a bit foggy. The bath water's getting cold. G' night!

Blub, blub, blub ...

***

Crash at June's House

Sounds bad, doesn't it? Well it wasn't too bad really. There was no actual 'crash', Ms J.

Here, then. Sit back and I'll tell you the story.

June is my sister. I've mentioned her here before Even posted a pic or two. You can click right here to refresh your memory, if you'd like.

She and I have wanted to watch the movie "Crash" together. I first saw the film last summer with Girl Alex and I thought it was quite inspirational. When I told June about it, she suggested we get together one evening at her place and watch it. I finally had a bit of free time, so at the last minute I phoned her to ask if we might do it tonight.

"Sure," she said and I could hear her smiling on the phone. "Our big screen tv is not working, but we can use the small one. Would you be OK with that, Dale?"

I told her that would be fine and rushed off to rent the DVD. Then I drove to her place. She is married to a great guy. Rob is his name. Rob's an auto mechanic. He's done lots of work on my cars over the years, and saved me lots of money. They have two young kids. Shauna and Ryan. Good kids. I really like them.

My sister is a good cook and we enjoyed a delicious dinner of roast pork and boiled potatoes. There was even some apple sauce June had made from Dad's apples. I made apple sauce too, Ms J. Remember? But alas, June's was tastier than mine. Sweeter, I think. Better. The meal was so good, in fact, that I over-indulged a tad. I ate a bit too much. I ... Well, I ...

OK. I ate like a starving man, Ms Journal. I ate like a pig. No, I don't mean my table manners were bad. I mean I ate enough food to sate three men. I was in agony after dinner. I felt like the enormous customer in the restaurant in that Monty Python sketch. He ate a mint after dinner and exploded. My belly did not detonate, fortunately, but I laid on the couch after supper and moaned for twenty minutes. Eventually, I found the energy to get up and go outside for a walk. That seemed to help.

While I was out, I observed the season's first light snowflakes as they swirled about the street lamps in the wind. It's always strange to see the first snow. It's both a blessing and a curse, isn't it?

June put the kids to bed around 8:00 and the three of us sat down to watch "Crash." But there was a problem. The posh, new DVD player they have is not compatible with their ancient and diminutive television. The big screen model is broken, remember? So there was in fact, no "Crash" at all. We were disappointed, but things turned out alright. Rob fell asleep watching SUV, or CIA, or something. It was a police story and it had three letters in the title. SIU? Whatever. June and I ate a bag of potato chips (i.e. crisps, for those across the pond) and chatted until after 11:00.

"I'm not kicking you out," she said at last, "but I have to get up for work in the morning. You can stay if you want, but I really have to go to bed."

I rose and kissed my sleeping brother-in-law on the top of his bald pate and hugged my sister.

"Bye, Goon," I said. (I still call her Goon sometimes, Ms J. From when we were kids.) "Thanks for dinner."

June laughed.

"Yeah. You're welcome. I know you enjoyed it."

I'm still full, Ms J. I feel like one of those huge African snakes that has just eaten a wildebeest. I won't have to eat again for a week!

***

Thanks, everyone

I appreciate your comments. I do. Rather than respond to every one, I'll just respond to the anonymous commenter, whoever it may be:

... as small a gesture as it would be it could be the gesture that saves you from being a very lonely old man in the future.

I'm doing the best I can. I'll do what's right. Eventually. But I'll do it when it feels right. Or when I can no longer bear the pain of the status quo. I'm struggling with some very difficult issues right now. But I ain't afraid of being a "very lonely old man."

If I were, I'd rush out and latch on to the first pathetic partner I could find. I know people who've done just that. But I won't mention any names.

---

Guess what, Ms J? I have air conditioning now. A system of central air conditioning. Ductless air conditioning, it’s called. Two men were here all day. They worked for more than three hours outside in the cold and rain. They first installed a unit on the wall at the top of the stairs and then another unit outside. It will cool the bedrooms and the main floor as well.

$2990.65

I know. It seems a lot of money right now. But come summer, when the humidex reaches 40C, it will be a wise investment. I’m absolutely sure of it.

Off I go now to another rehearsal for G.A.'s play. It opens on Saturday evening. Lord, help us!

I'll tell you a bit later about the kind generosity of friends and acquaintances.

Gotta run. Bye!

***

My Life: Chapter 10,037

I took Meagan home last night. In the car, on Highway 401, she spoke, breaking a comfortable silence.

"So we're movin' soon, eh Dad?"

"Moving?" I said. "Has Mummy sold the house?"

"Yeah. Well, not Mum, actually. It was Scott's house. We were renting it from him."

"I see."

I busied myself with a lane change and waited for her to continue.

"They want us out by the end of November -- the people who bought the house. So we have to move. Mum says we'll prob'ly end up in Oshawa. Tim's mum lives there, eh? So we'll prob'ly stay there for a few months til Mum and Tim find another place. Me and Emily will have to share a room."

I corrected her grammar.

"Emily and I."

"Whatever, Dad."

My thoughts came swirling to me like dry leaves before a stiff wind. Moving. Again. A new school for Meagan. New friends. Again. Oshawa is further away than Acton. It's more than an hour from Mimico. Til Mum and Tim find another place? Is Kelly so dull she wouldn't think to arrange for a home to move into when her current home was sold? Apparently. So they'll live for a few months in Tim's mother's home. Meagan will get settled in a new school, make a few friends, and then Kelly will pull up stakes and relocate again. God, how I despise that woman! She is not thinking at all of Meagan or what's best for her. And what about Dan? He's got a job, finally. Will he have to quit his job and move to Oshawa too? Ninety miles from Acton?

But I kept my thoughts to myself.

"How do you feel about moving, Scout?" I asked. "Are you excited about it or do you wish you could stay in Acton?"

"I'm not sure, exactly," she said after considering it for a moment. "I'm happy to get out of this stupid hick town, but I wish I didn't have to leave my friends."

I searched my mind desperately, looking for a way to put a postive spin on this new upheaval.

"Sometimes it's good to make a fresh start," I said, nodding my head in a bid to sound convincing. "What about Dan? Is he going too?"

A long silence followed. A few tiny drops of rain lit on the windshield. I waited as long as I could before I turned to look at my daughter. She sat there staring straight ahead, her round face lit a soft red by the tail-lights of the cars ahead.

"What's on your mind, Girl?" I asked. "Please tell me."

She spoke without moving her head.

"Can I ask you something, Dad? Without you getting upset?"

Shit, I thought. What now?

"You can ask me anything you want, Meagan. I can't promise I won't get upset, but I promise to try not to. OK?"

"Do you think you'll ever accept Dan's baby?"

I winced and bit my lip. I took a deep, slow breath and rubbed my cheek. I needed a shave. Kelly had been talking to her, telling her the things I'd said about Maxine and Dan and this ... baby. Why did she ever introduce those two desperate souls in the first place? Why a retarded girl? I'm so fucking angry with Dan for doing this. So angry with Kelly. And I can't even express my feelings to them without causing more trouble for myself. More heartache. Why did God let this happen? Where is the lesson in this?

"Dad? Did you hear me?"

"Yes, I heard you. I'm just trying to put my thoughts into words."

"OK. I'm not really supposed to be talking to you about this, but Dan is really upset. That's why he hasn't been coming around lately. He's pissed off with you because you won't accept his baby. He's been doing real good lately, Dad. He has. He's really trying hard to be responsible. He pays Mum her rent and he buys things for Maxine - you know, clothes and stuff. He goes to work almost every day. That baby is going to come, Dad, whether you like it or not. Maxine is starting to show. And it's Dan's baby. I think it's going to be a boy, Mum said. It's Dan's son. Your grandson."

Her words found their way to my heart, Ms Journal. But I refused to let them in. My iron-clad heart remained closed.

"One day I will, Meagan. Accept it, I mean. But I'm not ready yet. I'm sorry Dan's angry with me. I'm not particularly pleased with him, either. But I still love him. He's my son. My only son."

"And this baby will be your only grandson."

I felt as though I were talking to Kelly. I decided not to try to defend my position.

"I know," I said. "But I'm not ready to love it yet. Remember two Easters ago when I came to talk with you and Dan and Mum and Tim? I cried because I couldn't bring myself to feel happy about Emily. I didn't want you and Dan to have a half-sister. That was a really hard time for me, Scout. Remember?"

"I remember, Dad. And I also remember how you brought Easter candy for us and even a little plush toy for Emily. Mum was so happy when you did that. Why don't you do that for Dan? Why don't you just buy a little newborn outfit and give it to him? It would mean a lot to him, Dad."

I shook my head solemnly.

"But it would be a meaningless gesture, Meagan. It would be worthless because it wouldn't be genuine. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, but Dan wouldn't know."

"His spirit would know. And I would know. I can't do it, Scout. I can't be phony."

She sighed long and loud.

"He loves you, you know."

"I love him too," I said. "But I need time to come to grips with all this. You'll have to give me time, Meagan. I'll come around eventually. I will. But I'm not able to be happy about this just yet. Tell your brother I miss him. Tell him I still love him. But I need to see that he's doing some growing up."

She nodded her head in silence.

That's it, then, Ms J. That's how I feel. That's the best I can do. For now, anyway.

***

At Least It's Not A Tattoo

I stood on the door step and tapped lightly on the frosted glass. I'd told Meagan I'd be round to pick her up after school on Friday. I glanced at my watch. I was a little late. About ten minutes. A shadow moved beyond the glass and the door opened.

"Hi Dad!"

"Hi Scout," I began.

There was something odd in her expression. Apprehension, I think. My gaze fell from her blue eyes to her awkward smile and it was then that I noticed it. She'd had her lip pierced. There was a silver ring with a coloured bead through the lower righthand corner of her mouth.

"What happened to your lip?" I asked.

"I got it pierced," she said. "Do you like it?"

She knew my answer before I gave it.

"No, Meagan. I'm afraid I don't. I don't like it at all."

The voice in my head was loud. She's still your daughter. She's still your little Scout. Still the same inside. The part you love cannot be altered.

"But I still like you. I still love you, and that's what counts, right?"

The girl is ever ready for confrontation these days and my attempt at back-paddling did nothing to assuage her teenage petulance.

"I knew you'd freak out, Dad."

Then why on earth did you do it, I thought. But I didn't say it, Ms J. Instead, I defended myself against her allegation.

"I'm not freaking out, Meagan. I just said I'm not crazy about you getting your face pierced, that's all."

I thought of Kelly and I felt myself getting angry. What kind of parent would allow - indeed pay for - their thirteen year-old daughter to have her beautiful face mutilated this way? I realized I was over-reacting; I kept my thoughts to myself.

My daughter stood in the doorway and regarded me with a frazzled and frustrated expression.

"Why don't we just do this then, Dad? Just tell me it looks nice, then I'll turn my back for a minute while you have your little process. OK?"

I sighed and blinked slowly. My eyes kept moving toward the hardware in her lip and I forced myself again to look away. Why, oh why has she done this, I thought. I cannot win this contest, I thought. But this is no contest, is it? This is Life. And Life is not a contest.

"OK, Scout. It looks nice."

"Thank you," she said and turned away.

I was still "processing" when she turned to face me again.

"Dad," she said. "Dad? Are you nearly finished? We should get going."

We shared a laugh and walked together to the car in the late afternoon sunshine.

It's Saturday morning now. I still hate that ring. But I still love that girl.

***

Lest We Forget

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.


Please click on this link.

And stop this morning at 11:00 to observe two minutes of silence. It's a pittance of time. They gave their tomorrow for our today.

***

Enough Already!!

Rogers Cable is the local supplier of television programming and broadband internet service here in Mimico -- indeed, throughout the entire metropolis of Toronto. The telephone company (Bell Canada) competes for a share of that business. Recently, Rogers has begun offering telephone service to their customers. I use Rogers internet and television service, but I'm quite content to remain with Bell for my phone connection. Never, will I ever consider switching to Rogers for my phone. Here's why:

Twice a week, on average, someone from Rogers phones me up to try to sell me their "Total Rogers Bundle". Each time, I'm interrupted to answer the phone and each time, I politely tell the salesperson I'm not interested. I've asked them to stop calling me, but they persist. It's a different person each time, but still, you'd think they'd get the message. I don't want Rogers phone service. I don't want it.

In the past two weeks, I've been summoned at least three times to the front door by someone trying to entice me to buy more Rogers services. It's not enough that they keep phoning. Now they're hawking their crap door to door, like Avon. Or Jehovah's Witnesses.

So far, I've been nice. So far, I've politely refused their offer and gently bid the callers good-bye. So far. But I am beginning to lose my patience, Ms Journal. I'm nearing the end of my tether.

It's not the salesperson's fault, really. They're given a list of streets to canvas and they go forth in the hope of earning a little money in commission sales. It's a tough job, Ms J, and not one I'd fancy doing. But surely to goodness, there must be a way of keeping track of the people who've declined their offer. There must be a list somewhere of phone numbers and addresses they've already contacted.

STOP CALLING ME! STOP PESTERING ME! LEAVE ME IN PEACE!!

Don't make me get angry with you. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.


GRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!

***

Too Thin

A Hollywood actress once opined "One can never be too rich or too thin." She was speaking in literal terms. When I say I'm too thin, I'm speaking metaphorically. Look at me, Ms J! Could you ever imagine, even for a moment, that I'm actually too thin? Ha! I think not. I am, however, spreading myself too thin. As usual, I'm involving myself in too many activities all at once and I'm beginning to feel the strain.

Girl Alex's play will open on November 19. I have lines to learn. Quickly. It helps that we've all done these scenes before, but that was four or five years ago. My mind has become clogged with other things since then. Lots of other things.

The play in Oakville is a much bigger event, but in my mind, no less important than helping G.A. achieve her goal of traveling to South America early next year. I've promised her my support and I will honour that promise. Unfortunately, I've also made a commitment to The Burl-Oak Theatre Group to perform in their production which opens in January. Rehearsals there continue thrice weekly. Meanwhile, my friends in Caledon have a show currently running. "Lend Me A Tenor." It's an American farce involving opera singers and mistaken identities. I'll bet it's good and I'd like to see it. But when? How? All my days and evenings are booked.

Every November for the past five years, my friend Andra and I have gone to an outlet mall to begin our Christmas shopping. We make a day of it. The mall is about an hour's drive north of Mimico. We enjoy a car ride through the countryside together. We shop together. Andie makes reservations at a gorgeous country restaurant and we stop there for a late dinner on the way home. It's always fun to spend a day with my friend.

This year, however, our trip will require that I compromise my values. I'll have to lie. In order to accomodate Andra, I'll have to miss a rehearsal in Oakville. I really don't like missing a rehearsal, Ms J. It's not fair to the other actors. But I see no other way out. Andie has been a good and true friend to me. She was a constant support and sounding board for me while I grieved the loss of Donna, my second wife, and the one I loved. I don't want to disappoint her. On the morning of Sunday, November 20, I'll suddenly be stricken with some dreadful affliction that will keep me from attending a full run of Act 1. They'll have to make do without Andy Campbell, the police chief.

This coming weekend was to be my Meagan weekend. I called her last night to ask if I could keep her just one day instead of the entire weekend. I'm needed on Friday night to rehearse G.A's play with Frankie, and on Sunday at two different rehearsals: In Oakville in the afternoon and later, here in Mimico again with Alex and friends.

My girl has a dad who likes to perform in the theatre. She understands. And she accepts it. But I feel guilty for not spending time with her. I'll miss a rehearsal to spend time with Andra. Why must Meagan wait? But I will be seeing her, won't I? Just not for the whole weekend. Why do I still feel like crap?

Bob wants to meet for lunch. Larry hopes to have breakfast with me after his morning shift one day soon. Jenn would like to see me. I've promised Cy I'd pop over this afternoon to practice a couple of songs we're going to perform at the "Coffee House" at the church on November 26th. My Nerd plans to return sometime on Saturday to install a fresh (and legal) version of Windows XP. And Brian O'Connell from Controlled Comfort Heating and Air Conditioning will be round next week to begin installing a central air conditioning system while we await the gas hook-up for the furnace.

My back is in spasm. My neck hurts when I turn my head. It's pouring rain outside and my bad leg is tender today.

Like I said, Ms J. I'm spreading myself too thin. Good job I'm on vacation.

***

Ms J??? I'm home!!

Good evening, Ms Journal. I thought I'd touch base with you before I fly off again, this time to the church for a rehearsal of Girl Alex's play.

I had a good time with my brother at his sylvan retreat. He calls it simply "The Land", as in "I'm goin' up to The Land this weekend, Dale. Wanna come?"

The objective was to build a gazebo, but when we Pringle boys gather and talk about doing something, we do a lot more talking than doing. We did however, manage a few noteworthy erections followed by some good solid screwing.

Yeah, I knew you'd keep reading.

We erected the wall posts and screwed them onto the base platform. Then we erected the roof rafters and screwed them onto the top of the wall. It doesn't sound like much, does it? That's because it isn't. Like I said, Ms J, we do a lot more talking than doing.

We spent most of Saturday watching the chickadees at the feeder. The fearless little birds would light on our hands and accept a treat of sunflower seeds while a busy little chipmunk scavenged the seeds that fell to the ground. Pat and I played there for a long, long time.

"Well, we'd better get busy," my brother would say periodically, "or that gazebo won't get done this weekend."

Then the gold finches would arrive and Pat would go and fetch the fine, black niger seed they fancy. He'd holler from inside the cabin as he rummaged for more seed.

"I'm makin' fresh coffee. Do you want some?"

"Yeah. OK, Pat," I'd answer as I watched another blur of black and white briefly touch my hand, steal a seed and disappear.

"We'd better get busy pretty soon," Pat would say. "Or that gazebo won't get done this weekend."

It rained on Sunday. Nearly all day. T'was a hard, cold rain. Gusty winds, too. The man on the radio said they were blowing from the west at 100 kph. It sure made it tricky to stand on a step ladder and hold an eight foot post in place on the roof. The trees still wore a bit of colour on Saturday afternoon, but they were nearly naked by the time Monday dawned. Except for a few larch trees with their falling, yellow needles, the woods are a drab and dreary grey. Winter's approaching.

I took a few photos, but the batteries in my digital camera died fairly quickly after we'd arrived. I took a few pics with my 35 mm camera, but I'll have to get the film developed before I can share them with you. Maybe I'll get round to that tomorrow.

My nerd was here all afternoon today, wiping and reloading and removing and recovering. He charged me $300. The job's not done yet, though. He says he'll be back on Saturday. This computer is running a bootleg copy of Windows XP and it will no longer accept Windows updates. That means it has numerous "CRITICAL security vulnerabilities." I wonder how much a "new" version of Windows XP costs?

***

Good News and Bad

I'll give you the bad news first.

Well I don't know what's going on here, but according to a very recent and ongoing virus scan, this machine has been infected with more than 2400 threats. "Netsky P", "SORRY", "WORM SD BOT", "HLLO", "HELLRAISER", "HOOTERS", "KEYPRESS", ...

I could go on. Every worm and trojan and virus known to man has suddenly found its way into my computer. I use a software product (updated daily) called Trend Micro PC-cillin Internet Security. It was recommended and sold to me by the Nerd who last repaired this machine. It cost, I think, about $90. I was downloading music this afternoon from Limewire and I rushed off to work, leaving the computer on and the programme running. That was a mistake. It could turn out to be a costly one. I've called the Nerd. He says he'll be over next week.

So my computer is buggered, Ms J. But my furnace worries are over. The bank called today. They're happy to offer me a loan of $8000. A line of credit, actually. I'll go to the bank on Tuesday to sign the papers. I also got a call from the heating contractor. The $4000 guy. Brian, the cheaper of the two. He said he had discussed my asbestos problem with his boss and they agreed to remove the offensive stuff from my pipes.

"No extra charge."

He told me it's not as dangerous as I might think. And he promised me they'd remove it carefully and properly. I didn't ask about their lack of a licence. I just want the asbestos out of here. And I really didn't want to do it myself.

"What about references?" I asked him. "Is there someone I can contact to verify your workmanship?"

He gave me a phone number and the man with whom I spoke was quite pleased with that contractor.

"They did what they agreed to do and they cleaned up afterwards. Yeah. I'm pleased with what they did here. I haven't paid them yet, though. Make sure you don't pay them the full amount til the job's done to yer satisfaction, eh?"

I thanked the fellow - Bender was his name - and called Brian again.

"OK, Brian," I told him. "Looks like you get the job. I'll give you a call next week and we'll set a date to begin the work."

Apparently, it'll take the gas company about eight weeks to install the piping and gas meter. I won't be feeling the warmth from a gas-fired boiler until early next year. But at least the plan is coming together.

---

I start three weeks vacation on Monday, Ms J. Tomorrow morning, my brother and I are driving up to his cabin in the woods. We'll spend three days there building a gazebo. Pat's the handyman, not me. He's designed it and built it already at home. He dismantled the structure and transported it to his property up north. I'll help him put it back together on site. I'll take some pics and show you what we did when I get home on Tuesday.

Take care, Ms Journal. And stay inside. If you venture out into the virtual 'hood, you risk being attacked by some malevolent viral infection. Good luck, old girl. See you on Tuesday. I hope.

***

Where Have I Been?

Busy, Ms J. Busy every day and evening. Late to bed. Early to rise. Man, I feel as though I'm worn down to the nub. Rehearsals for "Yesteryear" in Oakville on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Sunday afternoons too. And I've also agreed to act in Girl Alex's production, which she's had to change from the 26th of November to the 19th. I honestly don't know how she'll have it ready to present in less than three weeks. One of the star actors - Bob - isn't available on the new date, so Alex will have to get someone else, or change the play somehow to omit Bob's parts. It just seems like so much to do in such a short time.

But it's her problem, not mine. I often adopt other people's troubles and make them my own. I've been laying awake at night worrying about Alex and her plan to raise money to go to South America. I must let go of those cares. They belong to Girl Alex, and not to me. My problem continues to be in choosing the right contractor to replace my furnace.

I still don't have a firm plan to replace my old, thirsty furnace. The man from Sipco came over last week. His name was Bob. He was a foreigner. Slavic. Romanovski. Bob Romanovski. Or something like that. Anyway, he was here about three minutes. The man went into my cellar, took one look at the furnace and pronounced it a "total dee-sass-ter." He urged me to replace it as soon as possible and quoted me a price of $4900. He didn't even leave me a written estimate. Just a business card.

"Deese ees wary bad sitchation. Vee can geeve you new boiler and furnace. Even take old von out. Vee haf wary strong men for leefting haffy tings."

Um, no thanks. The door is this way. Thanks for calling. Moron.

On Tuesday, Brian came over. Brian works for another contractor. He was quite thorough. And he seemed honest enough. Left me a written estimate. $4000. plus tax. I liked Brian. But just for fun, I decided to get one more estimate.

Barry was here on Wednesday. He too, was thorough. Very thorough. He shone the beam of his flashlight on the white insulation on the pipes.

"Asbestos, eh?" he said and scratched his stubbly cheek. "Have to get rid of that. Maybe not all of it, but two or three feet from the boiler anyway."

He scribbled something on his clipboard and then poked around a bit more.

Upstairs afterward, we sat at the table and I waited while he wrote up an itemized estimate. He used a calculator and made a few amendments. Finally, he pushed the paper across the table to me and I quickly scanned down the list until I came to the total amount at the bottom right-hand corner.

Six thousand four hundred and ninety-five dollars and ninety-five cents.

I must tell you, Ms Journal. I nearly shit and slid in it!

"Wow!" I said. "That's a lot of money."

Barry took his glasses off, set them on the placemat, and folded his arms across his chest.

"Well, you got asbestos down there," he said. "It's expensive damn stuff to get rid of."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because we can't do it. We have to hire another company to do it. We're not licenced to remove asbestos. It's dangerous stuff, eh? Causes cancer. They used it everywhere years ago. It's good for insulating pipes. It was cheap. They didn't know it caused cancer."

"How much does it cost to have it removed?" I asked.

"About fifteen hundred bucks. Give or take. It's a shame too, because the guys would remove that in about an hour. Pretty good money, eh?"

I nodded my head.

"I'll give you the number of the company. Maybe you can do better if you deal with them directly. Maybe if you pay cash ... Anyway, give me a shout when you decide what you want to do."

Sixty-five hundred dollars! Holy crap, Ms J! That's a lot of doh-re-mi. But this guy seemed to be honest and knowledgeable. Asbestos is making things complicated.

So I've got three estimates: One guy was an idiot. One quoted me $4000. And the last guy was $6500. Big difference there, eh? $2500. I called the $4000 man again. Brian.

"What was your cost to remove the asbestos, Brian?" I asked. "I don't see it here on the estimate."

"Oh, we can't touch that," he said. "We're not licenced."

"How much would it cost to have it removed?" I asked.

"I dunno, exactly. Prob'ly somewhere between a thousand and two thousand dollars."

I was quiet for a minute while I mulled it over. Stupid asbestos. I sighed loudly.

"Yeah," Brian was saying on the other end, we can't legally remove it. But the homeowner can do whatever he wants. If there was no asbestos on those pipes when we came to do the furnace ..."

I understood his point.

"OK, bud," I said. "Thanks for your time. I'll let you know."


Here she is. Ol' Thirsty. Oil fired boiler. See the asbestos on the pipes? Those pipes run the length of the cellar.

$6500. or $4000.? Tough choice. I think I'll buy a face mask with a HEPA filter and do some surreptitious cellar surgery. Don't worry, Ms J. I'll be careful.

Asbestos I can.

***