Much better, thank you

I feel better, Ms J. Calmer. Quieter. On the train this morning, I sat alone for fifteen minutes or so in prayer and meditation. In that place of stillness, I am able to be fully present, to "come", as they say, "into The Now."

Quelle difference, as they say in La Belle Province!

A new day approached and I met it confidently. The bright sun rose and the stars fled the sky before it. The wind whispered its secrets to the trees and the clouds raced our train back to Toronto. I noticed smiles on the station platforms. And I smiled too.

I'm meeting some friends for lunch today. Jennefer and her mum. I had lunch with Christine yesterday. Girl Alex is coming to visit me on Thursday to say good-bye before she goes off to Guyana for eight weeks. (Yes, she raised all the money she needed.)

Friends. Blog family. People who care. Thank you all so much.

Life is good. It's always good, isn't it, Ms Journal? The difference is in the way you see it.

After all, it's your attitude, not your aptitude that determines your altitude.

***

It's What You Make of It

Well that was a crappy morning, Ms J. "Craptacular", as Meagan would say.

Nothing horrible happened. There was no phone call from ... anyone not alive. Nothing terribly stressful happened at work. Indeed, the day began quite normally, with the alarm clock playing its electronic version of Beethoven's "Fur Elise."

I was tired, though. I didn't get much sleep. I met with a friend (Hi, Dana!) for lunch on Sunday. We chatted after lunch and later retired to my house. I made dinner and invited her to stay. We supped on burnt potatoes, cold vegetables and a roast of beef that I'd euphemistically describe as unremarkable. She said it was good, though, bless her heart. Our lunchtime chat turned into a gabfest that lasted nearly eleven hours.


Yeah, Dale. Lovely. But what about this "craptacular" morning you refered to a minute ago?

Yes, yes. I'm getting to that, Ms J. ----- Jeez.

I was tired this morning. I usually curl up in an empty coach and nap on the way to Hamilton in the morning, while the other engineer operates the train westward. But not this morning. I couldn't get comfortable. There was neither physical nor emotional comfort. The coach was noisy, and cold. The ride was rough and bumpy. And I kept thinking of Meagan. Without warning, I suddenly erupted in a furious wail.

"FOR F*&% SAKE!! THIS COACH IS DRIVING ME MENTAL!!"

My anger surprised me. I didn't even feel it building, although I know it must have taken some time to reach that level. I sat up and peered out the window into the darkness. I had no idea where we were, but my watch indicated we'd be another twenty minutes or so til we reached our destination.

I paced up and down the aisle, feeling my anger and wanting to punch something. I tried assaulting the seat cushions, but found it rather unsatisfying. So I yelled some more.

"STUPID NOISY EQUIPMENT! I'VE RIDDEN BOXCARS THAT WERE SMOOTHER THAN THIS!"

I hollered, Ms J, but I knew the train wasn't the source of my anger. I changed gears and screamed again, louder.

"STUPID TEENAGE HORMONES!! YOU'VE POSSESSED MY DAUGHTER! GET OUT OF HER! LEAVE HER BE!! COME BACK TO ME, SCOUT!"

I knew I was full of anger and hoped by shouting I might rid myself of it. After five minutes of pacing and screaming and cursing, I felt better. A bit hoarse, perhaps. But I was calmer. That lasted about half an hour. By the time we'd arrived in Hamilton, I was feeling edgy again.

Someone occupied "my seat" in the coffee shop. My breakfast bagel was too greasy. The coffee didn't suit me. The crew of another train were there, laughing and teasing each other. When they turned to me, I wanted to tell them all to get bent and flee back to the locomotive.

The other engineer was too chatty on the trip back to Toronto. He droned on about car stereos. I didn't care, Ms J, but I smiled politely and nodded appropriately. At every station, I listened to my inner voice criticising people on the platform.

"Look at this one's hair. Look at that one's stupid shoes. Who would wear a coat like that? What a moron. What a fatty. Bad teeth."

I was ruthless. It seemed I was powerless to stop it. I was repulsed by it. And I was glad I could keep it to myself. Does that make it OK, Ms J? Is it alright to behave like that if no one knows about it? I don't think so.

To stop my criticisms, I decided to talk.

"What do you think of the fence they've put up at the yard?" I asked, referring to the new ten-foot high chain link fence erected to force us all to pass through the office in order to access the trains. No more walking from the parking lot to the train yard.

"It's crazy, eh?" he said.

"Well, it's just another way to control us," I replied. "...to make us march in step like good little soldiers."

I could feel my anger cresting again.

"The sons-o-bitches won't stop until we're all miserable. Miserable and broken. They herd us like cattle going off to slaughter. That's the way they do it in the States, I guess. It's the American way. I don't know why this new management want us to hate them. Why do they want to foster an atmosphere of dread and distrust? Why can't they just leave us alone and let us do the &*%$^ job we've been doing every ^&**%$% day for thirty **^%&^* years!!"

The atmosphere in the cab had been lacerated blood-red by my flailing fury. And fear oozed out. I waited for a response and when it came, it was tiny and feeble.

"I don't know. I don't guess we have much choice, have we? Either accept it, or quit."

I turned back to the console and rang the bell for a road crossing. In the silence that followed, I felt the tears coming. Stupid tears. I hate them. I opened my eyes wide and successfully willed them to remain there and not spill onto my cheeks.

Too angry, today. Too helpless. Too powerless to change things. My job. My Life. My daughter and son. I cannot control things. Someone or Something is in control. I believe that. But it's not me, is it? It's just not me. Nothing I can do.

---

I wrote a letter to Meagan, you know Ms J. It was a pretty darned good one too. But I won't send it. It wouldn't help. My friends were right. They voted overwhelmingly in favour of deleting it. Too angry. Too threatening. Too much fear. She would only get angry. Angrier. It would only make things worse.

Let it go, old man. Let go and let God. All will be well. Somehow. Sometime.

I've poisoned my morning, Ms Journal. I'll try to do better this afternoon.

***

Today

Good afternoon, Ms J.

I thought I'd be waking this morning with Meagan in the house, but I guess The Universe had other plans. It sucks, quite frankly, when I don't get what I want. But I can take some comfort in the belief that I'm getting what I need. Or perhaps I'm simply feeling the shock waves inherent in someone else getting what they need. Whatever it is, it stings a little.

I think I'll take a stroll around the 'hood. Maybe visit the grocery store. It's a gorgeous day here in Mimico. Sunny and 9C. Strange weather. It feels more like April than January. It's not that I'm pining for the bitter cold and blowing snow that defines Canadian winter, Ms J. I'm enjoying the milder temperatures. But it just seems so bizarre. Winter is not over yet, though. I'm sure February and March will offer up some cold and snow, more typical of a Toronto winter.

I'm going this evening to a party. A citizenship party. An acquaintance of mine, Nick, recently became a Canadian citizen. He and his wife, Chelsea are from South Africa. They came to Canada to escape the violent crime so ubiquitous in South Africa. I want to shake Nick's hand and offer my congratulations on becoming a citizen of my country.

I wonder how it feels to relinquish the citizenship of your native country?

Personally, Ms J, I can't imagine it.

***

An End to the Darkness

I've been singing a song since I woke up this morning, Ms J, at 4:15. I'm getting tired of hearing it, but it's stuck in my head and I can't stop singing/humming/whistling it.

This little Light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine.
This little Light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine.
This little Light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine.
Let it shine. Let it shine. Let it shine.

Seems like good advice, wha'?

***

One Final Note

Ring ring.

"Hello?"

"I have a suggestion, Dale. It's a way that we can work things out, if you'll listen without hanging up on me."

A faint glimmer of Hope, I thought. Very faint, but a glimmer of Hope nonetheless.

"If you want to speak constructively, Kelly, if you want to speak without threats and without offense and about putting things right, I'm all ears. Please go ahead."

"You've got to stop treating me like shit, Dale. You've got to realise that I'm a good person. I was a good wife. I missed my mother's funeral because I was making you a sandwich ...."

More drivel. The glimmer faded quickly and was gone. I moved the phone away from my ear to ignore the rubbish she was spewing, and when I listened again a few seconds later ...

"It's no use. I'll just have to get a restraining order."

And she hung up the phone.

---

A mediator, eh?

What would a mediator do? Make her stop smoking pot? Make her stop screaming at the kids? Make her stop her hysterics, her tears, her self-pity? Would a mediator help her get a job? Would a mediator stop her lies? Her denial? Her pathetic need of a man in her Life constantly? Would a mediator help her to speak coherently?

She is dead to me. She has ceased to exist. Please don't visit this blog again to read about the latest mis-adventures of someone who was once a part of my Life. She is no longer a part of my Life, no longer reasonable, no longer of sound mind. To me, dear readers, she is simply no longer. Kelly is DEAD.

You have read my final post about her.

***

I Wonder What Went Wrong

What did I do, Ms J? Was it something I said?

The phone rang here early this afternoon. It was Kelly.

"I just called to let you know that Meagan went to school today. But she's home now. I picked her up at noon."

"How come, Kelly? What's the matter?"

"She's got her period, Dale, and she's hemorrhaging. Like before."

Kelly's a great fan of hyperbole.

"Hmmm," I said. "Alright then."

"Yeah, I've got to try and get her an appointment to see a gynecologist."

She's been talking about that since last summer, Ms J. Remember Meagan's frantic phone call here when she started her period at camp in August? Kelly promised then to take her to see a doctor.

"Well Kelly," I said, "I think there's some sense of urgency in this. Why don't you take her to the doctor?"

"I will."

When, I wondered. After she bleeds to death? I thought it, Ms Journal, but I said nothing.

"I also wanted to let you know that Meagan told her principal that she doesn't want you having access to her school reports. As of right now, the school can no longer talk to you about Meagan's grades. And you won't be getting any report cards."

I could scarcely believe it. It seemed incredible! Outrageous, even. I got angry.

"I'll go to court then, Kelly, and force the school to share that information with me."

Kelly had set a trap for me, and once again, I had walked right into it.

"Fine," she hissed. "And I'll take you back to court for more child sup---"

I hung up the phone. I am so tired of hearing that threat every time we argue.

The phone rang again and like a fool, I answered it.

"Hello?"

"I guess my phone must have cut out somehow. We got disconnected."

I think she honestly didn't know I'd hung up on her.

"Why did you call me, Kelly?" I asked. "Did you call me to hurt me, or to threaten me? Did you call to upset me or frighten me? Because I won't listen to that. If you have something to tell me that directly concerns the welfare of Dan or Meagan, I'll listen. I don't want to hear anything other than that."

She started again with threats about increasing my child support payments. I hung up again. She called back and I hung up a third time. I was shaking, Ms Journal. I tried to calm myself and discern what it was that frightened me so. I was afraid that Kelly will turn Meagan against me and she won't come to visit anymore. That's the Truth.

I tried desperately to contact the school principal but she did not return my calls. I wanted to ask her if what Kelly said was true. I wanted to know if Meagan had the right to deny me access to her school records. And I wanted to learn if it was possible to overturn that edict.

When I got home from work tonight, there was a phone message waiting for me. With great trepidation, I held the phone to my ear. It was Meagan's voice I heard. She spoke in a solemn monotone.

"Hi Dad. It's Meagan. I won't be coming to visit you this weekend. I'm just sick of your bullshit and I ---"

I didn't hear the rest of the message, Ms J. I deleted it. It hurt too much to listen to it. Dan broke my heart last year. Meagan did too, when she withheld her Love after I argued with her mother. And again when she didn't even see me after I'd broken my leg. Kelly disturbs me every time I talk to her.

What am I doing wrong, Ms J? Will someone please tell me? I don't want to be estranged from my daughter. I don't want to fight with any of them. What did I do, other than express concern that Meagan's not going to school? I spoke directly to her by telephone. I didn't threaten her at all or get angry. I didn't raise my voice or offer any intractible ultimatums. And I never spoke a word either to or about Meagan's mum.

What happened? And what am I to do now, I ask you. Quid faciam???

I feel like writing an email to Meagan, but I'm still too hurt, too angry. I'll wait until I'm able to respond, rather than react. It might take a while.

***

"Ch - ch - ch - changes"

Good song. But I still can't stand that freak, David Bowie.

Changes, Ms J. There've been changes overnight here in The True North Strong and Free. We have a new Prime Minister, God help us. His name is Stephen Harper. He's a Conservative. And a conservative. He plans to align himself more closely with our bellicose neighbours. This may be a bad thing, as I am not in favour of war. He has promised also to abolish the legislation that allows same-sex marriage. Harper's a "Christian", you see. Like Mr. Bush.

OK. Don't get me started. The last time I outlined my political views here, this blog was inundated with flag-waving patriots who argued with peaceniks and frankly, it was juvenile and disgusting.

Love is good. War is bad. End of story.

Let's move on, shall we?

---

I wrote a letter to Meagan's principal today. I'll go down to the post office in a minute and mail it. Wanna read it, Ms J? Here it is then. And I'm off to the post office.

Salut!

---

January 24, 2006


Dear Carol:

Thank you for taking the time to meet with me yesterday. I left the school feeling optimistic and positive about your commitment to Meagan’s education, but not particularly confident about my role in this. I did, however, phone Meagan last night.

I told her I had met with you and Mrs. M*** and outlined our expectations in terms of her attendance. I asked about her “anxiety” and received vague answers and belligerence. I also told her I’d be receiving copies of report cards and other correspondence between her mother and the school. I’ve just now phoned the school to inquire about Meagan’s attendance. Bonnie checked the record and confirmed Meagan is in school today.

I have decided against talking with my ex-wife, as this kind of dialogue inevitably turns confrontational and is wholly counterproductive. If ever you feel it’s necessary to contact Kelly, you have my full support. My hope is that Meagan’s attendance will improve now that she’s aware I’m monitoring it, and I shall continue to do so. Enclosed, you’ll find three self-addressed envelopes as per our discussion.

Again, thank you, Carol, for listening to my concerns. Please know that I want to be included in the sharing of pertinent information as regards the progress of Meagan at ****** Public School. Although she places little importance on her education at the moment, I understand it’s vital to her success and future happiness.

Sincerely,

Dale Pringle

***

Quid faciam?

That's Latin, Ms J. It means "What am I to do?"

I went to Meagan's school this morning to meet with her teacher and her principal. What I learned was disturbing.

"So how's Meagan doing in school?" I asked. "Has she adjusted well to her new environment?"

The teacher and principal looked at each other and then at me.

"We don't really know, Mr. Pringle. She rarely attends."

I raised my eyebrows.

"What? What do you mean? Is she here now?"

"No. She was here three or four days last week, but that was a good week. Her attendance record has been quite poor since she came here."

I asked about her attendance at her old school in Acton, but the women didn't know about that.

"We've requested her records from Acton, but we haven't received them yet."

"Meagan's been a student here for nearly a month now," I said, growing a little angry. "What's the problem? Why haven't her records been sent here? It's the same school board, just a different town, a different school."

They shrugged their shoulders and assured me they'd make further enquiries.

"Regular attendance is vital to Meagan's success here. We don't even know if she's learning the curriculum. We haven't been able to test her yet."

I pictured the face of my ex-wife and I wanted to bury my fist in it.

"Has Meagan offered any reason for her truancy? Has she said why she's been away so much?"

"She told me she feels anxious about school," said the principal, Mrs Thompson. "Is there any reason why she should feel that way?"

I explained about my situation, and a little about Meagan's home Life, without going into too much detail.

"What can I do," I asked, "to get her to come to school?"

The two women told me I should speak with her and try to learn what it is, exactly, that makes her want to stay home.

"She's a clever girl, Mr. Pringle."

"Call me Dale."

"She's a clever girl, Dale. She's articulate and mature in many ways. I'm sure she's more than capable. But she must attend school."

"What about socially?" I asked. "Does she have friends here? Has she been accepted by the other students?"

The women smiled and their heads bobbed in unison. Her teacher verbalized their thoughts.

"Oh yes. I've seen her holding hands with other girls and jumping up and down the way young girls do. She's very sociable. She seems at ease here. She smiles and laughs and seems to get along with everyone."

I thought of Kelly again. Frankly, Ms J, I can't understand why she doesn't insist Meagan go to school. Indeed, the law requires that every child in this province attend school until at least the age of sixteen. Meagan is thirteen.

"I wonder why her mother lets her stay home?" I said. "Is there anything the school can do to remind her of her responsibility to send her daughter to school?"

I have this image of Kelly happily consenting to Meagan staying home to care for little Emily. It may not be accurate, of course, but the possibility makes my blood boil.

"Yes. We'll send a letter to the mother expressing our concern about Meagan's spotty attendance. If things don't improve, the board will send a letter, more strongly worded, threatening to involve the authorities. But the best course of action right now, is to communicate with Meagan. Tell her you're concerned. And tell her we're concerned too. Let her know that if she wants to talk, my door is always open to her. If she's suffering from anxiety, we can arrange for her to talk to a psychologist or a counsellor. We care about her, Dale. We want to help. But she absolutely must attend school more regularly."

I phoned my girl tonight. I told her I'd met with her teacher and principal. I asked her why she hadn't been going to school and she offered feeble excuses. When I asked about her "anxiety", she was vague in her response. When pressed, she became defensive.

"Stop interfering in my Life, Dad. It's MY Life, not yours. School and home are two different things."

I explained I was just doing my job.

"I'm your Dad, Scout. I care about you. I want you to succeed. I want you to be happy."

And she became belligerent.

"You're not making me happy, Dad. You're pissing me off right now."

I remained calm. I did not get angry, Ms J. And I did not mention her mother at all. I explained my position as best I could and asked for her cooperation.

"Can you promise me you'll try, Scout?"

"I am trying, Dad."

"Can you promise me you'll try harder?"

There was a long pause. I could hear Emily in the background.

"Come up? Emmy come up? Come up?"

"No, Emily. There's not enough room on this chair for both of us. Go sit with brother. Go see Daniel."

It's such a crazy place to live, Ms J. Constant chaos. Continuous distractions. But I wanted a response. And I spoke again.

"Meagan?"

"What."

"Can you promise me you'll try harder?"

Silence.

"I don't want you to fail grade eight, Meagan."

"I won't fail, Dad. Stop worrying about me. I'm fine."

I was getting frustrated and so I opted to end the conversation.

"I've said all I want to say, Scout. You know how I feel. I love you, you know. You're important to me. And to Mrs. Thompson, too. If you need to talk, or you want help, please talk to us. I know your Life is crappy right now, Scout. It's not easy being thirteen. But you must go on. You have to hold your chin up and keep going. I'll help you all I can, but I can't do it for you."

More silence.

"I love you to the moon and back, Meagan."

Silence.

"Good-bye, Honey."

"Bye, Dad."

Click.

I'm not giving up yet, Ms Journal. I hope my daughter soon wakes up. I hope she doesn't follow in the footsteps of her brother. But it is her Life, ultimately. If she wants to waste a few years of it, so be it. I'll do my best to encourage her to succeed and to let her know she's important. I will never stop loving her.

Meanwhile, I've decided it would be unwise and even dangerous to try to talk to Kelly. She'd only get defensive and then we'd fight. I'll let the school handle it.

G'night.

***

All Quiet on the Mimico Front

Peaceful, Ms Journal. I feel at peace tonight. Quiet. Sattvic, I think, is the right word. I've had a nice dinner and a hot bath by candle light. That never fails to help me fall still.

We had a wonderful show in Oakville last night. In the change room before the performance, there was a noticeable lack of conversation. It's often that way on closing night. We had a good run but now it's all come to an end. There was no jocular banter or good-natured teasing. Everyone, it seems, was lost in thought. As I've said before, it's a feeling I can only describe as bittersweet.

The cast party afterward at the home of the director was fabulous. I didn't get home til after 3:00. There was lots of food and drink, and lots of hugs and handshakes. God, I'll miss those people, Ms J. I miss them already. It's the Truth that I always feel blue for a few days following the closing of a play.

"What will you do next?" was the oft-heard question at the party. "Do you have another play lined up? Will you audition again soon?"

I told them all no. I want to spend some time with my Meagan. I've really been neglecting her these past few weeks. She phoned me up the other day.

"Are you coming to get me on Friday, Dad?"

I felt like a shit, Ms J, but I told her no.

"I have a show to do on Friday night, Scout. And Saturday. There's a cast party on Saturday, too. I really want to go. And I'm meeting a woman after church on Sunday."

"A woman, eh Dad? What is she, like a date?"

Meagan tried to sound interested, but I know she was disappointed.

"No, Scout. It's not a date. I'm just meeting her, that's all."

"OK. Well, what about next weekend, then?"

I told her the play was closing on Saturday and then I'd be free. Next weekend would be fine.

"Why don't you bring a friend with you, Meagan? You always talk about your friends, but I've never met any of them."

"Really?" she said.

"Yeah. Really."

"Can I bring Sarah?"

"Honey, you can bring anyone you want."

I think it's a good idea to meet some of my daughter's friends, Ms J. See who she associates with. Get to know them.

"Cool! I'll ask Sarah."

I phoned Meagan this afternoon to tell her how my "date" went.

"Any kissing, Dad? Hand-holding? Anything like that?"

"No, Scout. We had lunch together at the Canadiana. That's all."

"Is she ugly as a hairy ape?"

"No. She's not."

"Is she painfully beautiful?"

I sighed, Ms J. And shook my head at my daughter's silliness.

"She's cute enough, I guess."

I have to be careful here, Ms Journal. She reads this blog.

"I'll come get you next weekend for sure, Scout," I said, changing the topic. "Make sure you talk to Sarah, and get her mum's permission. Maybe we can see a movie together. Or go downtown, or to a mall or something."

She was obviously pleased.

"Sweet."

"Where's Dan today? Is he home?"

"Yup. I'll get him. Wanna talk to him?"

"Yes, Meagan. Please. That'd be good."

"DAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNN!!! DAD'S ON THE PHONE!! HE WANTS TO TALK TO YOU!!"

I had a nice chat with The Boy. He's still working at the drugstore. Still angry about his hours being reduced. Still struggling to pay his mother $500. a month for room and board.

"She said she'd like to charge me less, Dad, but Maxine's here and Mum has to feed her too. I can't pay her the full amount. It's too much. I don't have anything left for myself."

Mmm-hmm. Welcome to reality, Boy.

"I'm gonna give it another month," he told me. "If I don't get more hours by then, I'm gonna quit."

I suggested he find another job before he quits the drugstore.

"And give them at least two weeks notice, Dan. That's the right way to quit a job."

I asked him about Maxine then.

"How's Maxine doing? Is she still healthy? Is the baby moving?"

Kelly was calling him and Meagan to the dinner table and Dan excused himself.

"Yeah. It's all good. She went to the doctor last week and got some pre-natal vitamins. She takes them every day. They're as big as horse pills."

Kelly was yelling in the background, getting more insistant that they come to the table.

"I gotta go, Dad. I'll talk to you soon, OK?"

"I love you, Dan."

"I love you too. And I always will."

"Bye, son."

"Bye, Dad."

I held the phone in my hand and smiled for a minute after I'd hung up. I pictured my kids at the dinner table and wished for a moment that I could be with them. Eating, laughing, sharing stories.

It's been a good day, Ms Journal. A good day. Tomorrow at 11:00, I have an appointment to see Meagan's teacher. My girl hasn't been doing well in her new school and I want to help get her back on track.

I think I'll go to bed early. Night, Ms J.

***

Test. Test.

I tried a bit of wine today, Ms Journal. A tiny bit. Less than a teaspoon. The doctor didn't test for wine yesterday - "We don't test for alcohol. Alcohol is poisonous. Avoid it." But I quite enjoy a glass of wine in the evening with a meal, or before a meal. Or after a meal. Or in the afternoon, with or without a meal. Or at night.

So I tested myself. Just a tiny trickle of red wine in a glass. It was a test trickle. (Yeah, I know. But the doc said I'm not allergic to nuts.) It's been two hours since I tried it and so far, nothing. I feel fine. My mouth is fine. No tingling tongue. No bad taste. I'm fine, Ms J. So far, so good. The doctor told me yesterday that a reaction to food usually occurs immediately.

"Three to thirty minutes after eating."

It puzzled him that it took four hours to affect me when I first experienced unpleasant symptoms on December 28th. If I still feel OK by 5:30, I'll consider it safe to drink wine. I tell you truly, Ms J, I have missed it.

---

Tonight, we perform our last show. "Yesteryear" closes tonight. We'll all attend the traditional cast party and share both tears and laughter. Whenever people come together to create something, or to pursue a common goal, there develops a special kind of camaraderie and fast friendships. The cast and crew of this play have all had fun. Over the past twelve weeks, we've become friends. And although we'll be glad to have our Lives back, I know we'll miss getting together. Some of us will meet again in other plays, but I know most will go their separate ways. The steps we take on stage tonight, and the words we speak will be bittersweet -- so important tonight between 8:00 and 10:30, but void of further significance after our final bows.

There is a song that is played during the pre-show to help establish the setting of the play. The same song is later sung, badly, by an actor on stage. It's Vera Lynn's signature wartime song. "We'll Meet Again."

We'll meet again. Don't know where. Don't know when. But I know we'll meet again some sunny day.

If they play that damn song at the party, I'm afraid there won't be a dry eye in the place.

***

OK. What Now?

I went to see the doctor today, Ms J. The allergist, Dr. Ho. He tested me for a host of different allergens. The only thing I reacted to, was the histamine. Histamine is the control substance. Everyone reacts to histamine. He tested me for allergies to a dozen kinds of mould, another dozen trees and plants and weeds, and he tested for peanuts. He tested for reactions to other nuts as well: Almonds, cashews, walnuts, pecans, hazelnut. And seafood: cod, halibut, tuna. And shrimp.

Nothing. I'm not allergic to anything he tested for.

"We'll take a throat swab, Dale," he told me. "If we find any evidence of strep throat, that would explain a lot. And I'll order some blood tests, but we may never identify the cause of your condition."

"Did I have an allergic reaction, Doc, or not?" I asked.

"No. You had something called angioedema. Swollen skin and sub-cutaneous layers. Swelling of the mucous membranes, like the lips and inside the mouth. Don't tell people you're allergic because you're not."

"Does this mean I can eat peanuts if I want? Or any nuts?"

"It means you can safely eat anything you've tested negative for."

So I feel ambivalent. I'm happy to learn that I'm not allergic ... to nuts, etc. But I'm still concerned about eating something that will cause those horrid, persistant symptoms to return. We still don't know what caused the reaction last month. I hope the throat swab or blood tests will reveal some answers.

Well, I'd better jump in the shower and get ready to go to the theatre. Tonight's our second last show. It will be adjudicated, so I'm really going to do my best.

Ta!

***

Hey! I Know That Woman!!

Heather over at Fumbling For Words has found the right turn of phrase. An article she wrote has been published and appears this morning in Canada's national newspaper, The Globe and Mail.

Click right HERE to access the Globe's website and read Heather's timely and well-written article. Congratulations, Heather! You must be so proud.

Here's a virtual {{{{{HUG}}}}} from a great admirer in the village of Mimico.


You've got me smilin' here. Smilin' HUGE!!!

***

From Gemmak

Gemmak sent me this meme. We'll call it the "Four Things Meme", K? Thanks, Scottie. It was kinda fun, actually.

Four Things You Love About Spring
1. The greening of the world around me.
2. The smell of creosote on warm, wooden railway ties.
3. Lighter clothing.
4. Daffodils

Four Things You Love About Summer
1. Riding my bike.
2. Watching sunsets in the park by the lake.
3. The smell of fresh cut grass.
4. Women in shorts and skirts and halter tops.
4. Women in shorts and ... Oh, sorry. Lost the plot for a moment there.

Four Things You Love About Autumn
1. The changing colours on the trees.
2. Crisp, breathable early morning air.
3. The Canadian National Exhibition.
4. The first hint of ice on the pond in High Park.

Four Things You Love about Winter
1. Soft, warm flannel sheets
2. Friends for dinner on a snowy night.
3. A cozy fire in the fireplace
4. Cooperation among neighbours to shovel snow.

Four U.S. Cities that You'’d Visit in a Heartbeat
1. Springfield -- to visit The Simpsons
2. Quahog -- to visit Family Guy
3. Arlen, Texas -- to visit Hank Hill
4. Washington, DC -- to visit The Smithsonian (and George Whatsizname)

Four Funniest Movies (in no partic. order)
1. Something About Mary
2. A Fish Called Wanda
3. Monty Python and The Holy Grail
4. Waking Ned Devine

Four Tear-Jerkers (in no partic. order)
1. Ghost
2. Crash
3. Beaches
4. Philadelphia

Four Most Romantic Songs
1. Forever and Ever, Amen - Randy Travis
2. I Wanna Stand With You ... - Savage Garden
3. I Just Can't Help Believin' - BJ Thomas
4. I Will Play a Rhapsody - Burton Cummings

Four Songs That Make You Happy
1. God Loves Everyone - Ron Sexsmith
2. End of the Line - The Travelling Wilbury's
3. Long May You Run - Neil Young
4. Watching the Apples Grow - Stan Rogers

Four Favourite Singers/Groups (in no order)
1. Beatles
2. Elton John
3. Beach Boys
4. The Rankins

Four All-Time Favourite TV Shows
1. Hill Street Blues
2. L.A. Law
3. The Simpsons
4. Sopranos

Four Things You Love About Where You Live
1. My good neighbours
2. The lake
3. So close to work
4. My new furnace

Four Things You Don't Like About Where You Live
1. No community theatre group close by.
2. Drugs and hookers a few blocks away.
3. So many 'Dollar stores" and crappy little retail outlets.
4. Too far from a quality grocery store.

Four Favourite Meals
1. Roast beef and Yorkshire puddings.
2. Turkey and mashed potatoes.
3. Shepherd's Pie.
4. Steak on the barbie

And I'll pass the baton to ... whomever wants to play. Michelle?

***

Who's ya Daddy?

The following are replies that Memphis women have written on Child Support Agency Forms in the section for listing father's details. Or to put it another way, Who's the Daddy! I can't speak for the authenticity of this piece, but real or not, it is amusing. Enjoy.

1. Regarding the identity of the father of my twins ... Child A was fathered by Jim Munson. I am unsure as to the identity of the father of Child B, but I believe that he was conceived on the same night.

2. I am unsure as to the identity of the father of my child as I was being sick out of a window when taken unexpectedly from behind. I can provide you with a list of names of men that I think were at the party if this helps.

3. I do not know the name of the father of my little girl. She was conceived at a party at 3600 Grand Avenue where I had unprotected sex with a man I met that night. I do remember that the sex was so good that I fainted. If you do manage to track down the father, can you send me his phone number?

4. I don't know the identity of the father of my daughter. He drives a BMW that now has a hole made by my stiletto in one of the door panels. Perhaps you can contact BMW service stations in this area and see if he's had it replaced?

5. I have never had sex with a man. I am still a Virginian. I am waiting on a letter from the Pope confirming that my son's conception was immaculate and that he is Jesus risen again.

6. I cannot tell you the name of Child A's dad as he informs me that to do so would blow his cover and that would have cataclysmic implications for the economy. I am torn between doing right by you and right by the country. Please advise.

7. I do not know who the father of my child was as all blacks look the same to me.

8. Peter Annandale is the father of Child A. If you do catch up with him, can you ask him what he did with my AC/DC CDs? Child B, who was also borned at the same time, well I don't have a clue.

9. From the dates it seems that my daughter was conceived at Disney World; maybe it really is the Magic Kingdom.

10. So much about that night is a blur. The only thing that I remember for sure is Delia Smith did a program about eggs earlier in the evening. If I'd have stayed in and watched more TV rather than going to the party at 146 Miller Drive, mine might have remained unfertilized.

11. I am unsure as to the identity of the father of my baby, after all, when you eat a can of beans you can't be sure which one made you fart.

***

Film Reviews

Good evening, Ms J. Happy Monday. How was your day? Mine was fine, thank you. I was bored this morning when I got home from work so I turned on the television. I get about seventy channels and there wasn't one that held my interest. Cooking shows. Talk shows. Soap operas. Infomercials. "The Shopping Network." Oh puh-lease. I walked down to the video store and rented a couple of DVD's. Three of them, actually.

- Life Is Beautiful
- What Dreams May Come
- The Wool Cap

I slid "Dreams" into the machine and went horizontal in the recliner. It stars Robin Williams as a man who dies and goes to Heaven. I like Robin Williams. I thought I'd like the movie. But I didn't. It was artsy-fartsy crap. And I fell asleep in my chair. When I woke twenty minutes later, I replaced that disc with "Life Is Beautiful."

It was better, Ms J, but the damn thing was filmed in Italian and I was forced to read the English subtitles. It was a good thing, though, because it kept me awake. It turned out to be a fabulous movie! It was written and directed by an Italian film star who cast himself in the prime role. I watched the "added features" later and learned that the movie and the man, Roberto Benigni, had received dozens of awards and accolades from the international film community on both sides of the Atlantic. It was a delightful film, Ms Journal. It's a film about Italian Jews during the holocaust. It's a film about Love and about being a Light that shines in the darkness to provide hope. I thoroughly enjoyed it, subtitles notwithstanding.

I had my lunch and then went over to the church to help Karen put away the groceries she'd bought for the food bank. At home again afterward, I still had time for one more movie before I had to return to work. I opened the drawer of my new DVD player, and swapped "Life Is Beautiful" for "The Wool Cap." "The Wool Cap" is an American film starring William H. Macy and based on a book - "Gigot" - by legendary funny man Jackie Gleason. Macy first became known to me as the inept fraud artist in the movie "Fargo". I am a great fan and admire Macy's skill as an actor. This movie was outstanding!

Macy plays the mute superintendant of a run-down apartment building in New York. As testament to his acting abilities, he does not utter a single syllable, yet shows such intense emotion. He befriends a young girl whose mother is a drug addict and together they learn about unconditional Love and about forgiveness. I wept like a woman at the end.

So that was my day, Ms J. T'weren't very thrilling, but it was enjoyable. Damned enjoyable!

G'night now.

***

Slow News Day

Not much to report today, Ms J. We had a really good show last night. Although it was our third show, it was the first time we all relaxed on stage and just had fun with it. I guess the audience must have sensed our enjoyment; they offered up a standing ovation!! Eight or nine friends were in the audience and they all came downstairs to see me after the show. Kirk and Rey were there and so were three couples from church. Our student minister, Carla, was there too. I couldn't stop smiling! Cast and crew adjourned thereafter to a private party at the Burlington home of one of the actors. We actors are a fun bunch when we gather to party and it was nearly 2:00 when I got home.

It's a brilliant day here in Mimico, Ms J. Blue skies and bright sunshine. Lord how my eyes have hungered for the sun! It's chilly though - minus 12C. I think I'll go for a stroll down to the video store. I bought a new DVD player recently and I think I'll christen it this afternoon. I hear "Cinderella Man" is good.

***

Morning Thoughts

The wind woke me this morning. It was howling outside and rattling my bedroom window. I'd been dreaming of Meagan. She was at the theatre last night to watch the play with her cousin, Sherri. After the show, I exited the change room to find Meagan waiting in the hall. I hugged her tightly.

"Hi Scout! It's great to see you. Did you enjoy the show?"

"Yeah, Dad. It was pretty good. But there was a big, fat guy in front of me and I couldn't see very well."

Sherri and I laughed and I hugged my niece as well. It's really nice to have fans in the audience. I suspected they'd made it to the theatre when I heard a loud cheer as I took my final bow at the curtain call.

Anyway, my girl was on my mind when I first opened my eyes this morning. I'd been replaying a conversation we'd had in the car last weekend. We were on our way back to Norval after dinner last Sunday when she broke a comfortable silence.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I get a tattoo?”

“No.”

“You have tattoos.”

“I didn’t get them til I was 35.”

We discussed waiting until you really find something you know you’ll like. Forever. We talked about how interests and passions change as we get older. And we discussed the very permanent nature of tattoos.

“But if I got something that I grew out of, it would just be a memento of an earlier time in my Life – a time when I used to like childish things. It wouldn’t be a bad thing, Dad.”

She cannot see things the way I do. She hasn’t lived enough yet, although she thinks she has.

“I’ll tell you what, Scout. If you promise to wait until you’re eighteen, I’ll take you myself to a tattoo artist and pay for whatever you want. How does that sound?”

“Mum could take me. She took me to get my lip pierced. And my belly button.”

I was suddenly angry. Really angry.

“If Mum takes you to get a tattoo, I will FREAK OUT on her. She won’t even know what hit her.”

After a moment of awkward silence, Meagan said, “OK. You made your point.”

I had been harsh and threatening and when I spoke again, I tried to soften it.

“If you wait til you’re older, Scout, I will pay for your tattoo. And I promise I won’t speak a critical word about it. Deal?”

“OK, Dad. That sounds pretty good, I guess.”

I still don’t think I won her over, Ms J. She sounded a bit conciliatory, but at least she’d agreed to wait.

You know, it's a very frustrating thing that kids have such crazy ideas, and even moreso that they believe so strongly in their right to make their own decisions. God help them. And God help their parents.

***

Brilliant!

We were brilliant last night, Ms J. The audience was warm and receptive and we gave them a really good show. The energy levels began to wane a bit in the second act, but when the "lads" gathered on stage, we pumped it up a bit.

Nobody missed a line. There were no obvious late entrances. I heard of no glitches with lights or sound. It was just a really good show. Now, if we can maintain or exceed that level of excellence tonight and tomorrow and for four more shows next week, we'll really have done something we can all be proud of.

After the show, we all gathered at a local pub, The Queen's Head, for drinks and nibblies. That was the first time in the entire process that we've actually had a chance to socialise. Throughout the rehearsals, we've all been working hard, listening, focusing, practicing and there's been little opportunity to visit with each other. It was good, Ms J. Real good.

---

I've bought three tickets for tonight's performance. My niece, Sherri and her friend are going to see the show. I've asked her to stop and collect Meagan on the way. Scout's seen every play I've ever done, and she's proud of her dear ol' dad. The arrangements were made last minute and although Sherri knows the plan for tonight, I've so far been unable to contact Kelly.

My ex-wife is quite delinquent about returning phone calls. She still suffers a dial-up internet connection which renders her phone useless and ... Well, actually Ms Journal, she doesn't seem to suffer at all with it. The poor souls who might like to contact her are the ones who suffer. I wonder if it's just me, or does she ignore all the people who leave repeated voice mail after enduring her breathy greeting? I'll keep trying.

We'll put on a good show again tonight. I'll crank it up for Sherri and Meagan. And yes, Ms J, I do realise it's Friday the thirteenth. We'll speak no more of this.

***

Opening Night Tonight

Our play opens tonight, Ms J. The curtain goes up at 8:00. The theatre seats just under five hundred and according to recent reports, it's nearly sold out. I was up at 4:00 this morning for work and I've been busy all day. I had no time for a nap. I am seriously sleep-deprived. I hope my performance doesn't suffer.

Here are my plans for this evening:

Shower and shave. Leave home around 6:00.


Arrive here by 6:30.


Enter through this door.

Sign the appearance sheet and make my way to the dressing room. Exchange jokes with other nervous actors, and get into my costume. Then go down the hall to make-up.


Get my make-up done by one of two very pretty girls.

Join the other actors on stage at 7:00 for physical and vocal warm-ups. "Ap Pap. Ep Pep. Ip Pip. Op Pop. Up Pup. Ma ma ma. Na na na. Da da da." (And so on.)

Finish getting dressed downstairs and wait for cue from Ass't Stage Manager. Pace. Make stupid, nervous jokes with the others who wait with me.

Enter stage on cue. Immediately, capture the attention of the audience. Shine!


Have a few drinks with the lads.

We all get pretty drunk in Act 1. Robert Ramsey, a young new comer to our gathering opines that the town needs to attract conventions. This prompts my character, in a drunken stupor, to speak this line, my personal favourite:

"Conventions? Nonsense! Masses of men, away from home, are disgusting. They can't hold their liquor. They wander the streets at two in the morning, and piss on your snapdragons."

I know it's bad luck to wish an actor "good luck", Ms J. But please don't say "break a ..." Well, you know.


"They wander the streets at two in the morning and piss on yer snapdragons."

Ta!

***

This And That

My furnace is in. They installed it yesterday. A man from the gas company arrived at 10:00 this morning to inspect the installation and to turn on the gas. The furnace is quietly hissing away downstairs and my home is a comfortable 21C. It's a strange, strange day outside though. 8C. Eight! This is January, right?

Click on the pics, as usual, to enlarge them. Please avoid clicking on my ego, Ms J. It's large enough already, thank you.


There she is, Ms J. So little. But much gentler on the environment.

---

I saw Kathy this morning. I slowed as I always do to scan the faces on the platform at Bronte. And there she was, standing straight and smiling slightly at some private thought. I wanted to open the window of the locomotive and call to her, but there was no time. No time, Ms Journal. The Universe gives me no time for Kathy it seems. (Yes, I'm listening to that, Frankie.)

---

Rehearsal tonight in Oakville. Dress rehearsal. It's actually a complete show with lights and sound, costumes and make-up. I don't like wearing make-up. Make-up artists apply eye liner and mascara to actors in the dressing rooms before the show. And maybe some rouge too, to make for ruddy cheeks. It's necessary to enhance our faces under the bright glare of stage lights, but off stage, it makes all the men look like women. This will be our last rehearsal. Opening night is tomorrow. And I feel strangely calm.

Here's an early review from the local newspaper:

The Oakville Beaver

And here's a pic of Police Chief Andy Campbell enjoying a drink of Hiram Walker's Canadian Rye Whiskey with the lads in the back room of Howard's Hardware. I don't have the lead role in this play. And frankly, my ego hates not being the star!


Howard's in the background. L-R is Tom Wallace (retired banker), Andy Campbell, and Malcolm MacGregor (Mayor of Raglan, Saskatchewan) Good people, all.

I'm off now to Oakville. Ciao, bella!

***

New Furnace

I got my new efficient gas furnace today, Ms J. It looks great and uses much less space in the cellar than the old one did. It's a lucky thing though, that the weather is so mild tonight at plus 2C.

The gas won't be turned on until later tomorrow.

***

The E-bay Song

This is cute. I dedicate this post and this song to PBS, who's selling off her possessions to facilitate her up-coming move. And to Gemmak, another one who's been known to buy things online.

Go HERE. Click on PLAY, turn the speakers up and enjoy!

---

Late rehearsal tonight. Cue to cue for the light and sound people. Very tedious, stopping and starting. I've got to get to bed. Furnace day tomorrow.

***

Kathy

I was on my way home from rehearsal yesterday, when I saw her. I was sitting in my car at a red light when I glanced over at the vehicle next to me. The passenger was a teenage boy. His mum was driving. And her profile looked familiar. I stared intently. After a moment, she turned to the boy and smiled as she spoke. I recognised that bright smile. It was Kathy! I lowered my window and smiled and waved. She saw me and waved back. Then the light turned green.

I drove ahead of her and watched her in my mirror. My mind was racing with thoughts and memories. How long had it been since I saw her last? Two years? Three? God, she looked fabulous! Where was she going? And what was her son's name, again? Jesse. That's right. Good boy. Meagan's age. I drove on, hoping to encounter another red light. What would I do then, I wondered. Get out of the car and talk to her? Or would I play it cool. Pretend I'd moved on. Pretend my heart wasn't racing at the thought of talking to her again. Another intersection loomed ahead and I slowed down slightly, willing the signal to turn from green to red. Did she notice? Was she doing the same?

I pulled into the left turn lane just as the light changed to red. I glanced in my mirror and watched Kathy stop behind me. My stomach suddenly felt nervous. Butterflies. Like just before going on stage. What should I do? She was right behind me. Should I get out and say hello? I wondered if she'd have time to stop for a coffee somewhere. She loved her Tim Horton's coffee, I remembered. Without moving my head, I studied her reflection in the mirror. Did she know I was watching her? Was she watching me?

Time was ticking away, Ms J. The traffic signal would soon turn to green. There were only seconds left. It was too late now. I was out of time. Damn! I threw off my seatbelt and leapt from the car. My heart was racing as I approached her window. What would I say? What would she say?

"Hi Kathy!"

"Hi Dale! How are you?"

"Fine. I'm fine."

Oh God. There was so much to say. So much more than 'how are you'.

"You look fantastic, Kathy."

That smile, Ms J. My heart was melting.

"Thanks. How's the acting going? Have you done any plays lately?"

I glanced at the traffic light. It was still red. So little time. There were two more cars behind Kathy. I'm sure their drivers were wondering what I was doing.

"Yeah, I've just come from a rehearsal. We're doing a play at the Oakville Centre For Performing Arts. It opens next Thursday."

I looked again at the traffic light. Still red. No time now. There was so much to say, Ms Journal. Or perhaps there was nothing more. I wasn't sure. Words began to tumble out.

"I still think of you, Kathy. I miss you."

She offered that smile again, a little sadder this time.

"I haven't seen you on the train lately," she said.

"I've watched for you every day," I answered. I sounded desperate, but I plunged ahead.

"You look really good, Kathy. It's great to see you again."

She was pointing at something ahead just as a horn began to blare. The stupid traffic light! I put my palms together in front of my chest as a kind of benediction. Or was it more of a prayer, Ms J?

"I gotta go. I miss you, Kathy."

And I sprinted back to the familiar safety of my car. Oh god. I'd said too much! I'd spilled my guts! I should have played it cool. Like Humphry Bogart. Or somebody.

She followed me around the corner and as I entered the great swooping curve that led to the Queen Elizabeth Way and home, I turned my head and waved to her as she continued north on Dorval Drive.

I loved her, Ms Journal. I loved her madly. Desperately. She said she loved me too. But Kathy is married. And our Love could never be. I still think of her. I still slow my train down to a crawl and scan the faces in the crowd on the platform at Bronte every morning in the hope of seeing her again. I thought I might never see her.

I still love her. And she's still married. I know where she lives. I know where she works and her email address. I know her husband's work schedule. It seems to me, though, that the best way to love Kathy, is to leave her alone.

I wonder if she still thinks of me?

***

On My Mind Today

Friday. Finally. It’s been a short week, Ms J, but it’s felt much longer. I’ve been doing battle daily with these allergy symptoms. Each day, my mouth burns for a couple of hours. All day, it tastes bad. Acidic. I brush my teeth and drink water and eat bread in hopes of soaking up the acid, but it doesn’t help much. I can notice an improvement, though. The symptoms are getting less each day, and don’t seem to last as long. So that’s good. I’m taking only half a prednisone pill per day, as prescribed. I have one and a half pills left, enough for three more days. I called my doctor today to enquire about an appointment with an allergist.

“We’ve called Dr. Ho’s office, Dale,” I was told. “We’re just waiting for them to call us back with an appointment time.”

So that’s in the works. I wonder how long I’ll have to wait to see this guy?

---

I spoke with Brian at Controlled Comfort Air this morning. He says everything is ready for Tuesday. That’s the day when I’ll get my new gas furnace.

“The removal crew is scheduled for 7:00 a.m.,” he said. “As soon as they get rid of your old oil furnace and tank, the installation guys will start hooking up the new unit. They should be done by 4:00.”

I’ve got about an eighth of a tank of fuel oil left, Ms J. I sure hope that’s enough to last until Tuesday. The weather has turned cold again. It’s currently minus 9C in Mimico. I’m cold, but I’m trying to make do with the oil I have. I don’t want to buy more, only to have the men pump it out on Tuesday.

---

We had a full dress rehearsal for the play in Oakville last night. I think it went pretty well. So well in fact, that the director has cancelled a rehearsal planned for tonight. Yippee! I’m going now to collect my best girl, Meagan. She’ll spend the weekend here with me. I suppose I’ll have to raise the thermostat a little to suit her. OK. A lot.

This play will be expensive. The furnace too. I’ll have to take the whole day off work on Tuesday. On Wednesday, we’ll have our big dress rehearsal, with lights and sound and the whole she-bang. At the theatre. I’ll take the afternoon off for that. The show opens on Thursday, the 12th. I’ll take the afternoon off again. There’s another performance on Friday night, so that’ll cost me another half day. Two full days pay, gone! That’ll hurt.

But I’ll have a new furnace, finally. And our play will be absolutely fabulous!

Maybe I'll post a picture of my character, Police Chief Andy Campbell, in costume and gathering with the men for a drink in the back room of Howard's Hardware. Raglan, Saskatchewan. 1948.

OK. Off I go to get my girl. Bye!

***

Progress

I went to visit the doctor today, Ms J. He listened to my story and offered a sympathetic ear.

"Allergic reactions can be very unpleasant," he said flatly, slowly blinking his eyes. "Would you like me to refer you to an allergist for testing?"

Well, duh. If you were on fire, would you like me to .... YES, you tool! Of course I want to see a specialist. I want to find out exactly what it was that I reacted to. And avoid it forever after.

"Yes, doctor," I said. "That would be very helpful, I think."

We discussed the purchase of an "Epipen", an emergency device for injecting epinephrine in case of anaphylactic reaction to allergies or severe and Life-threatening asthma attack.

EpiPen -- "Because every second counts."


***

He gave me a prescription and I bought one. $100. It seems expensive as hell to me, but if it saves my Life sometime ...

You know, Ms J, I don't even know if I need it or not. I haven't been tested, yet. The doctor told me his receptionist would make an appointment for me to see an allergist - Dr. Ho. (He sounds more like a gynecologist, doesn't he?) And the tests may not proof conclusive.

"Meanwhile," said the phlegmatic physician, "stay away from nuts."

No worries there, mate. I've become obsessive about reading labels.

So must I carry this stupid needle everywhere I go? "Just in case?" I don't want to, to be honest. And I don't want to tell everyone about this. I don't want to be a freak. I just want to be normal, or as normal as I used to be. Back in the day.

But that day is over, isn't it, Ms Journal? We'll know more, hopefully, after the tests in a week or so.


It doesn't fit easily in a pocket. A jacket pocket, I suppose. But not a pants pocket. Will I have to wear one of those "fanny packs"? (sorry Michelle! LOL!) And look like a freak?

The doctor told me a recent story about a young man in the U.S. who kissed his girlfriend after he'd eaten a peanut butter sandwich. She died. I don't want to die, Ms J. That's the Truth. That would spoil my entire day.

I'm scared.

***

Enough Darkness. On to Something Lighter.

G'day, Ms J.

Sorry about all the doom and gloom I've been posting here lately. Dad says you've gotta have some rain in your Life, or you'll never appreciate the sun. He's right, of course. So I'll try to move on from the weighty topic of suffering to something lighter: A fairy tale. It arrived just this morning in my inbox and I thought it was worth sharing.

The World's Shortest Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, a guy asked a girl, "Will you marry me?"
The girl said, "No," and the guy lived happily ever after and went fishing, hunting, and played golf a lot and drank beer and farted whenever he wanted.

- The End -

***

Life: "The Magical Mystery Tour"

I was sitting in the recliner chair last night, watching the mindless drivel on television and trying not to think about my burning mouth, when the phone rang. It was Mum.

“Hi Dale,” she said. “Your dad and I have been thinking about you all day and wondering how you were making out. How’s your mouth feel today? Have you had any more bouts of the symptoms you described?”

Her voice was both soothing and disquieting. Mother’s care and concern is always soothing, Ms J, of course. And always welcome. But she sounded sad, and after I’d told her the pain had returned, I immediately regretted it. When she told me her throat was aching in sympathy with mine, I wished I hadn’t spoken up and asked her to help carry my burden.

Whenever a child suffers, it seems his parents suffer too. It’s always been this way. I suppose it always will. It’s right and proper somehow to feel compassion for the pain of others. Indeed, the word compassion is itself derived from Latin words meaning “to suffer with.” An awareness of and sympathy for the suffering of others is something beautiful, something God-like. It makes us human. It makes us humane. And the world is a softer, gentler place as a result.

I lay in my bed this morning, staring into the pre-dawn darkness and compiling a mental list – the pros and cons as it were, of sharing my misery with others. Not with others, necessarily, but with my parents, specifically. Is it right that I should cause them to worry? What can they do but wring their soft hands and commiserate?

“I wish I was there with you, Dale,” Mum said last night, “but I don’t know what I could do to help.”

What could she have done, Ms Journal? What could she have done to help me? My mouth was burning. My lip was swollen a bit. But it wasn’t unbearable. And now, by telling her about it, the ripples of my pain had spread out across the countryside, to affect people I love. Like a macabre sort of radar signal, the pain then returned to its source. My eyes filled.

“My last thought last night as I climbed into bed, was a prayer for you,” she’d said. “... and my first thought in the morning. I prayed for you, Dale. I hate to think of you hurting.”

And I hate to think of hurting my dear ol’ mum. I love her so, Ms J. And prayer couldn’t hurt, could it? It just might help. Maybe.

A dog barked somewhere outside and a car passed, its headlights rousing shadows which scurried across the bedroom wall. A thought came to me then, in the dark. It was not an original thought. I’d read it before somewhere, although I can’t remember where.

Joy shared is doubled. Pain shared is halved.

Maybe that was it, then. Perhaps that was the most compelling reason to share my burden with Mum. But she would have to shoulder the other half, wouldn't she? She and Dad. She could pray for me, though. That would surely offer her some relief. And if she shared her pain with God, ...

I smiled at the idea of slicing pain, like a pie, and sharing it equally with family and friends. And with God. Then it came to me. It became clear then.

If I love someone, I don’t want them to suffer. If I love them, I would gladly accept a portion of their hurt. If, God forbid, Daniel or Meagan were suffering, wouldn’t I want to know about it? Wouldn’t I seek ways to mitigate their suffering, even if it were only through the uncertain mystery of prayer?

An awareness of and sympathy for the suffering of others is something beautiful, something God-like. It makes us human. It makes us humane. And the world is a softer, gentler place as a result.

Parents. Children. Friends. And pain.

Life, Ms Journal. It is indeed, “a magical, mystery tour.” And it's waiting to take you away.

***

Something Positive

It's the first day of a new year. I feel I must post something positive. It is hard to be positive when you don't feel well. Yes, Ms J. My mouth is burning again tonight. It started this afternoon.

I was feeling alright after lunch today, so I decided to visit my elderly friend in hospital. Winn is her name. Winifred. I don't know how old she is. About 80 I'd guess. She's had both hips replaced but she still struggles to walk. She sings in the choir at our church.

About a week before Christmas, she was walking up the stairs at her home. Her husband, Bill, said she was on her way to bed and carrying something. Bill heard a crash and hurried to the foot of the stairs where he found his wife crumpled and unconscious.

"I called her name and she didn't answer," he told me. "I reached for her. There was a lot of blood. I was scared to move her you know, so I called 911."

Bill is legally blind and unable to drive. He is stronger on his feet though, so he and Winn are a co-dependant couple. Winifred only needs her glasses to read and she does the driving. Or she will, when she gets out of the hospital. She needed nearly 30 stitches to mend the tear in her scalp. She has a fractured collar bone and, I think a dislocated shoulder. I found her in good spirits this afternoon, despite her pain, and we enjoyed a friendly chin-wag. I left to come home around 4:00 and as I drove, I felt the familiar tingle on my tongue. I tried not to think about it, but I knew my torment was beginning anew. The match had been struck.

I stopped on the way at a convenience store. I thought some ice cream or popsicles would be just the thing to soothe my fiery gob. I held the cartons and read the ingredients.

"May contain traces of peanuts or nuts."

"Made with equipment used for processing nuts and/or peanuts."

Peanuts, Ms J! In vanilla bloody ice cream! And popsicles! Popsicles are frozen water, sugar and food colouring. And peanuts, apparently. I drove home in an angry rush.

I have pills. Yes, I do have pills. Prednisone, remember?

"Take one pill each day."

Lovely.

The doctor said, "Take a pill every morning before 9:00. Just one pill per day. This is a steroid type drug. It could cause bone deterioration among other things. Fractures, etc. Just be careful."

And he was gone.

Bone deterioration? Fractures? What the hell kind of drug is that? And what if the symptoms don't appear until dinner time? Am I to wait then, until 9:00 the next morning to take a pill? It hurts. I can't sleep. Why must I suffer at night? I need to sleep. Why must I suffer at all, damn it?

Something positive. Post something positive.

.............. Errrrr...

Come on, lad. You can do it. Start the year off right.

It's not as miserable as it was Tuesday night. My throat's not sore. I can swallow now. And I'm not producing so much saliva now. Yes, it's not as bad as it was. That's true. I'm better off than Winn, that's for sure. I'm not in hospital. And I did have a lovely Christmas. Celebrated with my kids. Hugged them both. Told them I love 'em. They love me too.

This too shall pass, Ms Journal. I've had troubles before, haven't I? I've always come through. I will this time, too. I'll be alright. I'm going to see my doctor on Wednesday. He'll have some answers. Maybe I'll be over my symptoms by then, eh?

Yeah, I'm alright I suppose. A lot better off than some, I reckon.

Cra..., I mean Happy New Year, Ms J. Yeah. Happy New Year.

(How was that, then? Positive enough, you think?)

***