A National Birthday Celebration ...

But what to give?

It's Canada's birthday tomorrow, Ms J. And I haven't even gotten her a card yet. What does one get for an adolescent country (139 yrs old) that has everything? Something geographical perhaps.

Mountains? Got 'em.

Wide, fertile prairies? Nope. She's got lots of that. Canada's ample grain harvest travels by rail east and west and then by ship to feed people in both Europe and Asia.

She doesn't need an ocean either, as she has three of them.

Fresh water lakes, perhaps? Nope. Canada has the world's largest supply of fresh water.

How's her economy, then? Maybe she'd like an economic boost. No thanks. The politicians assure us our economy is the strongest it's been in fifty years.

Hmmmm ... Politicians, eh? Now there's something she could use. Canada hasn't had a prime minister of note since Pierre Trudeau, and that was thirty-odd years ago. We've had leaders who introduced new taxes, leaders who are quick to follow our American friends, wherever they may take us, and leaders who are primarily interested in increasing their own wealth whilst getting their names in the history books.

I'd love to give Canadian politicians the desire to act in the interest not just of themselves or their home town or even our nation exclusively, but to act to improve conditions for all the people of this planet.

How can we maintain our role as military peace keepers despite mounting pressure to fight (and die) like soldiers? How can we help the poorest nations to become more self-sufficient? How can we help the ones here at home who need food and shelter? Why do rich people get all the tax breaks? Why must the burden of taxation fall on the shoulders of a steadily shrinking middle class? What can be done to encourage volunteerism? Or regular tithing?

If only we had politicians who had the courage to address these questions, Ms J, and who were truly interested in finding answers. That's what Canada needs.


July 1st. Please send us a politician with a backbone.

Surely to goodness in a land of 35 million, there must be someone with the vision and tenacity of Sir John A. MacDonald, our first prime minister.

Hello? Is there anyone out there?

***

Headin' For High School

I braved the heat and humidity and waded out into the afternoon traffic yesterday to attend Meagan's graduation ceremony. It was important to her, Ms J, so it was important to me. It was held at the community centre/hockey arena in Acton. Acton is a little town about ten minutes down the highway from her home in Norval.

The ceremony was scheduled to begin at 6:30. I arrived about 6:15 and the parking lot was full. I parked the car across the street and then returned to wait outside the building. There were, I suppose 150 grads, each with an entourage of parents, grandparents and step-parents. I stood on tip-toes and scanned the faces. No Meagan. No Kelly or Tim or Scott. No Dan. At 6:30, the crowd filed into the arena. The sign in the lobby said, "Grads to rink surface. Parents upstairs to spectator area."

I waited alone in the lobby for a while longer. Still no sign of Kelly. Or Meagan. I glanced at my watch. 6:45. This was typical of Kelly, Ms J. She has no sense of time. I've known her for more than twenty years. I've never known her to be punctual. I went up the stairs to the bleachers.

The spectator area was packed with people. There were no seats available. People stood shoulder to shoulder along the railing, everyone stretching and peering down, and hoping to catch a glimpse of their beloved grad. Frankly, Ms J, it was hot and stuffy in there, and the view was frustrating and disappointing.


I held the camera above my head to capture this shot. We were looking at the backs of their faraway heads.

I heard a familiar voice.

"Hi Dad!"

It was Dan.

"Hi son! Where's your sister? Did she come with you?"

"Yeah," he said. "She's down there somewhere."

"Where's Mum?"

His thumb shot past his ear.

"Still comin' up the stairs, I guess. It's freakin' hot in here, eh?"

In a moment, Kelly emerged from the stairwell. She didn't look too bad, actually. She was wearing make-up and her hair was nicely done. I noticed the tiny stud in her nose and decided again it was tacky and devoid of class, but of course, I said nothing. She was wearing a long black formal dress with a LOW cut front and spaghetti straps that looked as though they might break any second under the strain of those mammoth breasts. Trashy, Ms J. Inappropriate for a function like this.

She pulled her shoulders back and displayed herself, like a peacock, Ms J. Or a ...

"Hi Dale. Sorry we're late. Tim blah blah blah with Emily blah blah because our phone blah blah blah ..."

And so on. I smiled and pretended to care.

"What did you find for Meagan to wear?" I asked her.

"Well, I got this dress for her but she didn't want to wear it, eh? She didn't like her boobs showing this much. So I'm wearing it."

Oh Ms Journal. If only you could have seen that dress on my hex wife. It looked three sizes too small. And that chest ...!! My, my, my. It was just not attractive, Ms J. And I'm a boob man.

"I don't have the boobs anymore," she told me a few years ago, "but I still have the bags they came in."

Lord, Ms Journal. That was just way more than I needed to know.

"Yes, I see that. What did you finally get for Meagan, Kel"?

"Scott got her a black blazer and I borrowed a red top from a friend of mine. She's wearing that with the black denim capri pants she bought for herself with her birthday money."

"What about shoes?" I asked. "Did she get new shoes?"

Dan answered the question.

"No Dad. She said she wanted to wear her running shoes and Mum let her. When I graduated grade 8, I was TOLD what to wear. But Meagan has her own ideas about --"

"SSHHHHHH!" Kelly was saying. "Meagan is next. I want to hear them call her name."

We watched as a girl in a long, beautiful gown accepted her diploma and shook the hand of the principal. The girl's hair was curled and styled and piled high on her head. She wore high heeled shoes and nylon stockings. She looked like Cinderella at the ball. All the girls did. All except my Scout.

"MEAGAN P*****."

Meagan approached the podium, and received her diploma. Her rubber soled, black canvas sneakers made no sound as she returned to her seat. Her hair was long and straight. And dark purple. She turned toward us and raised her diploma in one hand and offered a proud thumbs up with the other.

And you know what, Ms J?

I really don't care what she wore to her grad. She was happy. And in the end, isn't happiness all we really want for our kids?


"I'm all done with childhood, Dad. I'm headin' for high school."

***

A Labour/Management Rant

I know. If I ignore nasty commenters and negative comments, they'll go away. If I acknowledge them, it only perpetuates it. But it's my blog, isn't it, Ms J? I'm the boss here. So for mk99, I have this to say.

I have a "real job". If you don't like what I've got to say, or the way I choose to live, go away. You'll be missed, but your comments won't.

And for "Anonymous" and anyone else who doesn't fully understand the nature of my job, the inhumanity of my employer, or the contents of our legally binding labour contract:

I have the RIGHT to book rest. I have ALWAYS had the RIGHT to book rest. The company (Canadian National Railways) signed an agreement two years ago in which they agreed to maintain that RIGHT. I've done nothing wrong. The arrogant pricks who now run our once proud railway have shown no regard for workers rights under this contract. Indeed, they use every means possible to harass and intimidate us. We're fed up. I've been booking rest for thirty years, whenever I needed rest or a few hours off work. Now suddenly, management has decided it's verboten.

I agree that in some cases unions have done more harm than good. But right now, at CN, we need a union more than ever. And if management is unhappy with us booking rest, they should seek to abolish it through negotiation, and not simply decree it like some egomaniacal dictator.

---

Tomorrow - What did Meagan wear to her grad? Oy!

***

It Doesn't Look Like a Deck, Does It?

The lumber arrived yesterday afternoon. I called Home Depot at 2:00 and explained my dissatisfaction in terms that were none too gentle.

"I've been waiting since 9:00! Where the hell is my order?"

"Hold please, sir."

I was still holding nearly ten minutes (!!!) later when the sound of hissing air brakes drew me toward the window. The truck had arrived, and not a moment too soon. I had to return to work in less than an hour.


Here's the truck. It held about three other orders besides mine. The green stuff on top is mine. See the little red forklift? The driver uses it to unload his own truck. Cool, eh?

The man lifted the entire order off the truck at once and set it neatly in the driveway. I pulled an old plastic tarp over the bags of cement and stored the screws and nails and other hardware in the garage.


I hope to entice Wally and Angry Bob to help me carry it all into the back yard today. I assume it will look more like a deck when the pieces are reassembled and fastened together. The weatherman is predicting rain all week. Figures eh?

Meagan's Grade 8 Graduation ceremony is this evening. Reckon I'll be booking rest this afternoon ...

***

Waiting for the Wood

Well, Ms J, here I sit, drumming my fingers and peering expectantly out the window each time I hear a truck on the street. I'm waiting delivery of the lumber and building material I'll need for the deck.

"Between 9 and 3," I told them. "I work a split shift and I'll be home then to receive the order. Earlier is better, actually."

The man had smiled broadly and nodded and noted my request on the computer. I wondered then what it was that made him smile so. I suppose he knew that the note would mean nothing to the driver. I should consider myself lucky if my order arrives at all today. I do hope it comes in time for me to store the bags of concrete - I've ordered fourteen of them, Ms J. They weigh 35 kgs each - in the garage out of the rain.

Yeah, it's a damp, dreary day today here in Mimico, and I do hope I can keep the concrete dry. I have no need of fourteen 70 lb. stones, even if they are neatly wrapped in paper.

I'll let you know how things turn out.

***

Tanks Be To God

I finally got rid of my old oil tank, Ms J. It’s been sitting in the driveway outside my kitchen window since November when the men removed my oil furnace and tank.

I spoke to them when they were carrying it up the basement stairs.

“Where are you going with that tank?” I asked.

“Oh, we’ll get rid of it for you,” was their response.

I assumed they’d sell it, Ms Journal. It was only two years old and cost $400. when it was new. I didn’t pay for it, though. The man from whom I bought my house replaced the old tank, which was leaking slightly.

“Just leave it out back,” I told the removal crew. “I’ll dispose of it myself.”

So they did and in the spring, I put an ad in the newspaper. I got a few calls.

“Does it have a gauge?” they wanted to know. “And a filter?”

It did, Ms J, once upon a time. But the guys who removed the tank had helped themselves to those items and left me with a tank I couldn’t sell. Bastards, eh?

I tried and tried to sell the thing, but no one wanted it without a gauge and a filter. Finally, in desperation, I called a scrap metal dealer.

“I have an oil tank. How much is it worth to you?”

“Is it cut in half?” the man asked, “Or still in one piece?”

I thought it a silly question and I told him so.

“Well we can’t take it unless it’s cut in two. It’s the only way we’re allowed to crush it. Too dangerous in one piece.”

I called the city garbage collection people.

“No, we can’t take that. It has to go to a special dump, for environmentally hazardous items. Try calling a scrap metal dealer.”

I even phoned a junk removal company. At first, they didn’t want it at all.

“Is it cut in half?”

After a bit of pleading on my part, they agreed to fetch it.

“Sixty-five dollar disposal fee, sir. Plus GST.”

At last, I called the company that sold me my gas furnace and as gently as possible, suggested that perhaps their employees had absconded with some key pieces of the tank they’d removed.

Of course, the man with whom I spoke defended the honour of his work crew and denied any wrong-doing whatsoever.

“Well,” I told him, “the tank had both filter and gauge the morning your lads were here. Now it doesn’t. I believe what I believe. I can’t sell the stupid thing now. I think your fellows should come back here and get this tank.”

“They don’t work for us directly,” he said. “They’re contractors. But I’ll contact them and give them your number. You can deal with them directly. I’m really busy here today, Mr. Pringle. I have to go. You’ll hear from the removal crew in a day or two. They’ll come by and get your tank.”

Sure they will, I thought. When they get good and ready. I'm building a deck. I’ll need that space. I want the bloody tank out of there!

That was a couple of weeks ago. I was beginning to lose hope.

I got a call yesterday from a man who’d seen my ad on the internet.

“You still got that tank?” he asked.

I told him about it and about the missing pieces.

“Hmmm,” he said. “No gauge, eh? I was hoping for a gauge.”

In desperation, I told him if he’d just come and get the darn thing, he could have it for free.

“Really?” he said. “That’s fantastic! Will you be home tonight?”

I told him yeah and now he’s gone. The tank is gone. I no longer have to see the huge container, painted in battleship grey every time I gaze out my kitchen window.

I feel relieved now simply to be rid of it.

God is good, Ms J. All the time.

***

Al Fresco Worship

Today was our last Sunday at Wesley for more than a month. Our church will be closed for the month of July. We did the same thing last year. I spent the month visiting other churches here in Mimico. This year, I think I’ll explore a bit further afield. I want to visit a church in Oakville I’ve heard about. And I’d love to attend a service at Metropolitan United, Toronto’s huge downtown United church. Or St. Michael’s, the rich downtown Catholic church and the principle Church of the Archdiocese of Toronto. Maybe I’ll go to church with my neighbours, the Moltos. They attend St. Leo’s Catholic church here in Mimico. That’s where I went for World Day of Prayer back in March, Ms J. Remember? They were very nice there. And no, Ms Journal, I’m not thinking of converting to Catholicism.

It’s a bonny day today and 20C. Perfect for our annual outdoor service. I rehearsed a few songs with the choir last Thursday and I joined them on the front lawn of the church this morning. Accompanied by three guitars, two clarinets and a fid ... er, a violin, we sang under the great, leafy branches of a matronly Maple tree. I think the congregation enjoyed the informal service. And when Wesley reopens in August, I’ll be donning a robe and joining them in the choir loft. I’m not much of a singer, really. But I like all the people in the choir and I do enjoy music. And you know I love to perform for an audience!

Some of the songs they do are really difficult ones, Ms J, and I'll admit to being more a fan of Hank Williams than of J.S. Bach, but our choir is small in number. They really need more male voices. I told Emile, the music director, that when I'm rehearsing a play, I may not be available for choir practices. He understood completely.

"Just come on out when you can, Dale," he said in his delightful South African accent. "We'll be glad to see you."

You know, Ms Journal, I attend Wesley Mimico United Church for a number of reasons, but among the most compelling is the sense I have of belonging there. I feel welcome there. I've always felt that way. And don't we all long to feel a sense of belonging to something bigger than ourselves?

***

My Pick of Pics

Pics. They're pictures, Ms J. Photographs. But we like to call them pics nowadays. We like to shorten words and common expressions hoping, I suppose, to save time. I don't do it too often but I know of people who do it 24/7.

Anyway, here are a few photos. FYI.


Here I am with Dan and baby David. Meagan took this shot.


In this photo, I imagine him to be looking into the future. I pray he finds peace there, and happiness.


This is Emily. She's two years old and smart as a whip. Emily is the daughter of Kelly and Tim, half-sister to Dan and Meagan. She's David's aunt.


"I don't know, Dad. I might decide not to have kids." I understand Meagan's feelings. Kids bring us joy, that's true. But they also bring worry and stress and sleepless nights.


Silliness at the zoo on Scout's birthday. She laughs every time she sees this picture. Click on it to get the full effect.


This is the cast of "StreetHearts" the play I helped write and in which I performed. It was challenging, Ms J. After six months of it, I was completely knackered. We all were.


It's too dark, but can you see the large sliding door in the middle? I'll walk out that door from my dining room onto my deck. The deck will run from the little window on the left to just beyond the kitchen window on the right. The fence will be removed.


Here I am after a performance of "StreetHearts". My sisters, Jill (L) and June (R) came to see it and were impressed. Yes, Ms J. They're identical twins.

And that's about it for today, Ms J. See you tomorrow!

***

Plans Laid to Hatch Next Week

I drove straight from work this morning to Home Depot. I ordered the material I'll need to build my deck. They were so helpful, Ms J, so nice and knowledgeable. Not at all like the torpid twit I encountered at RONA.

"Sir, are you sure you want to use 2x6 decking? Unless you plan big parties out there with lots of people dancing, you really don't need 2x6's. You could use 5/4 boards instead."

Slack-jawed, I looked at him and blinked.

"Five quarter?"

"Yeah, it's not quite as thick as a 2x6. It'll do the job just fine and it'll be cheaper."

A stubby, bandaged finger poked away at a computer keyboard for a second.

"About sixty bucks cheaper. That'll pay for the delivery charge."

"Cool!" I said and turned to another man behind the counter. "This fellow just saved me sixty bucks!"

"And I'm gonna save you some more money," he said. "This weekend only, there's 7% off all pressure treated lumber and decking supplies."

The first estimate they gave me was nearly $1500. This time, it's down to $1300 plus tax. If only every shopping excursion were as satisfying.

The lumber and building materials will be delivered on Tuesday between 9:00 and 3:00.

No more procrastination, Ms Journal. No excuses. I'm off now to tear down an old wooden fence to make room for my lovely new deck! I sure hope Wally and Angry Bob keep their word and help me until the job's done.

***

What a Waste!

I attended my investigation hearing at work this aft'. It was a waste of time. The supervisor who conducted the investigation is a brain-washed idiot. He's a waste of flesh. And the company will pay me a full day's pay for sitting in an office for ninety minutes. What a waste of resources!

The questions, with my answers, were all meticulously recorded and copies made for various department heads, hangers-on, and other silk tie wearing sycophants.

1. Q. Company records indicate that your name is Dale Pringle and that your PIN is 843166. Records further indicate that you are employed as second engineer on job 10 at Mimico. Is this correct?

A. Yes.

2. Q. Do you desire an accredited representative of the Teamsters Canada Rail Conference to appear with you? If so, please indicate who, and if present.

A. Joe Luc. He's present.

3. Q. Have you and your union representative had sufficient time to prepare for this investigation?

A. (Joe said yes and entered an objection, quoting from our collective agreement and also from an award given by a federal arbitrator who was brought in to decide on this very matter two years ago. The arbitrator, Mr. Weatherhill, ruled that employees have the right to book rest and that the company cannot require employees to justify their decision to exercise this right.)

Then the supervisor said, "Your objection is noted. The investigation will proceed.

4. Q. Records indicate that on 04 May 2006, you booked rest during your regular work week and thereby were unavailable for work on Friday 05 May 2006. Why did you book rest on this occasion?

Joe: Objection. This question contradicts the ruling of Mr. Weatherhill as noted in the objection above.

Supervisor: Your objection is noted. The question will remain.

A. I was tired.

From there, Ms J, it just got even stupider. The moron continued to ask the same question for each of the five occasions I exercised my RIGHT to book rest. Each time, I gave the same answer.

I was tired.

This pointless and frustrating drivel continued for more than an hour until at last I had answered all the (leading and/or loaded) questions.

33. Q. What can be expected of you in the future with respect to your attendance and the judicious use of the rest provisions in your collective agreement?

A. I will continue, as I have, to employ rest provisions as stated in my collective agreement as I deem necessary to ensure proper fitness for duty. My job is a safety sensitive one, and I take this safety very seriously.

34. Q. Mr. Luc, do you have any questions you'd like asked of Mr. Pringle?

A. Not at this time.

35. Q. Mr. Pringle, do you have anything further to add which is relevant to this employee statement?

I took a long time before I spoke. A LONG time. Maybe a full two minutes. There was so much I had to say, Ms J. So many thoughts and feelings to share with this sanctimonious clot. I closed my eyes tight and silently prayed.

"Be with me Jesus. Help me to speak my Truth without disrespect."

I turned to look at Joe who was seated beside me. He knows I'm a huge proponent of Truth. For the first time, he looked worried.

"Be careful, Dale. You don't have to add anything ... If you don't want to."

I took a slow, deep breath, Ms J, and I spoke.

A. I feel I have done absolutely nothing wrong. And it disturbs me greatly that the company would so squander its resources by conducting investigations such as this one. Safety is an important issue, and I will not come to work without proper rest. It's an affront, quite frankly, to my integrity when you intimate that I take time off for personal reasons by booking rest. I enjoy regularly scheduled days off, I'm entitled to twelve personal leave days every year, and I have six weeks vacation. When I book rest, I do it because I'm tired. When I book sick, it's because I'm sick. I have not, will not, and do not book rest to gain time off.

I spoke slowly, clearly, Ms J, so he could type it into his report. When he was finished, I asked him to read it back to me. As he read it, I glanced at Joe. He was smiling now, and nodding his head.

36. Q. Are you satisfied with the manner in which this investigation has been conducted?

A. I'm disturbed by the entire line of questioning. I'm disturbed that this company continues to show flagrant disregard for collective agreements and for the ruling of a federally appointed arbitrator, to wit Mr. Weatherhill.

---

What a steaming crock of shit, Ms J! But I did get the day off with pay, and that was a rather nice gift on a perfectly gorgeous summer day. Tomorrow's Friday. I wonder if I should book rest and take the afternoon off?

***

Oh-oh!

I'm in trouble at work, Ms J.

I took the afternoon off to take Meagan to the zoo on her birthday and I took the next Friday afternoon off to perform the play. I booked rest. Now, I'm in trouble. Sort of. Let me explain.

At the end of each shift, train and yard employees are allowed to "book rest" - six hours minimum and twenty-four maximum - effectively making him/her unavailable for duty until the expiration of his/her rest. This right was negotiated in a collective agreement a hundred years ago and it's been maintained in every contract since then. The idea behind it was to allow employees to be sufficiently rested before returning to work in what was then a very hazardous environment. Back then, steam engines and a lack of modern technology often made for trips in excess of twelve hours.

It could be argued that the right to book rest in commuter train service is arcane, and can severely restrict the company's ability to effectively utilise their workforce. Yes, it could be argued. But at present, the right to book rest still comprises part of our union agreement. We still have the contractual right to book rest. But as I've written before, this new American regime at CN has shown no regard for contracts or agreements of any kind. They rule with all the arrogance one would expect of a global Superpower.

Tomorrow, I am required to attend "an investigation to provide a formal employee statement in connection with" my "alleged failure to protect" my "assignment by way of booking rest on 05/05, 05/19, 06/02" (that was Meagan's birthday), "06/09 and 06/16."

I've just spoken with Joe, my union steward, and he advised me to call the crew office tonight when I finish work and tell them I'm required to attend an investigation. They'll book me off "on company business." For the whole day tomorrow. And I'll get paid. For the whole day.

So here's my summation:

The company, under the new "American style of management" claims to be upset about a (non-existent) manpower shortage. Despite the fact that a contract exists clearly giving us the right to book rest, the company is now ordering investigations and disciplining employees who exercise this right. They claim there's a manpower shortage, so to address the issue, they've ordered me to attend a meeting tomorrow instead of allowing me to do my job. I'll miss the entire day of work and the company will pay me my full wages. The union steward, who is an engineer like me, will also be paid as though he'd gone to work on a train. And furthermore, a third and fourth employee will be called from an emergency list to man the trains that Joe and I would have operated.

That's really clever, isn't it, Ms J? That's really efficient, really productive.

And all this is done for no other reason but to intimidate, harass and frighten employees.

Our CEO, E. Hunter Harrison, and his band of bullies have absolutely nothing to gain from this. Not only is it un-productive, it's counter-productive. Will this make me a better employee? Will I be more apt now to observe company policy? No. I'll only be more bitter, angrier, more intent on shoving it up Harrison's arse and breaking it off.

Fuck you, you arrogant prick! I'm taking tomorrow off. All day. And you'll have to pay me for it. Aren't you a clever businessman??

***

NB: I've been critical of American management tactics here before. And I will continue to state my opinion as is my right. Let the record show, however, that I do not dislike Americans. I have friends and relatives south of the border and they've always been very nice.

Lunch With a Friend

My friend is on my mind again today, Ms J. M. He's still hurting, still reeling, but too angry yet to begin mourning the loss of his marriage, his wife, his home and identity. My east coast friends on Cape Breton Island call it "heartsick" and I think that's an apt description.

Poor old M is so disturbed, he's not thinking logically. He phoned here late Saturday evening when Meagan was here. He was drunk. Staggering, slobbering, drunk. He had just left a local pub and he said he was walking to the train station. It wasn't more than a five minute walk. I considered going to fetch him and letting him sleep it off here, but I didn't want him around Meagan in that condition.

I'm not implying that he might have harmed her in any way. I don't think that, no. But I just don't want Meagan to be exposed to such ... debauchery. She'll experience it soon enough on her own, Ms J, if she hasn't already by way of her mother's maladjusted man friends.

I later learned that M had taken the train to Oshawa (an hour away) and then tried to drive to his sister's house, which is where he's been living. On the way, he drove into a ditch and damaged his car. There were no injuries and thankfully, no one else was involved. However, the police have charged him with drinking and driving, a very serious offence. I think the penalty for a first offense is a one-year license suspension and a fine of $1000.

I know he hurts. I know it's a difficult time, Ms J. VERY difficult. But he's only making things worse for himself. Now is the time for him to be gentle with himself. It's important now to love himself, to forgive himself his transgressions. Of course, it's important to acknowledge the part he played in the failure of his relationship, but not to get stuck there in self blame and emotional flagellation.

He's lost a lot, Ms J, I know. His wife, his home, friends, family, his financial freedom, and now his car. If he continues his destructive behaviour, he'll lose his job and at worst, his Life.

What in the world can I tell this man to urge him to change his ways? What can I say to him that will matter to him, when at this point, NOTHING has any meaning for him?

I hope I can think of something. He'll be here for lunch in an hour.

Maybe there is wisdom to be gleaned here regarding yesterday's post about Self Love vs Selfishness.

***

More Life Lessons

Evening, Ms J. Sorry I didn't write yesterday, but it was a busy day. A busy, busy Father's Day. Do you know what Meagan gave me for Father's Day? She came with me to church! How proud I was to take my best girl into church and re-introduce her to my friends. She used to go with me when she was younger, but she says she doesn't believe in all that "God and stuff" anymore. That's fine, Ms J. Neither did I when I was her age. I didn't go to church for thirty years.

Anyway, Meagan endured the hour long service and later we spent the afternoon at a back yard barbecue/cast party. The play is all over now and I have a Life again. Halleluiah!

On the drive back to Norval, we chatted in the car. I asked about baby David.

"Does Mum still help Dan and Maxine care for the baby?"

"Not anymore," she said. "Mum only helped out for a few weeks. She hardly sees David now. But it's OK, Dad. Dan is being a really great father, and Maxine is a good mum. They look after David just fine."

I asked about the Children's Aid Society and do they still come round to check on Dan and Maxine. And David.

"Yeah, but not as often anymore. I think they're starting to trust Dan and Maxine more. But Mum uses that when she fights with Dan or Maxine, eh?"

I switched off the radio and glanced over at her.

"What do you mean, Scout?"

"Well she says 'All it would take is one phone call and you'd lose that baby. I could just make one call to Children's Aid, and they'd come and take David. You'd never see him again.'"

She put her canvas running shoe up on the dash and busied herself with her shoe lace.

"Can she do that, Dad?"

I shook my head.

"No. She can't. Not that easily. Does Daniel believe her?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think so, but he's scared. Maxine believes her, though. She'll believe anything you tell her."

I nodded my head to indicate I understood.

"You tell that boy he has nothing to fear as long as he cares for David. Nobody can take the baby away unless they're hurting him in some way."

"He's fine, Dad. He's absolutely fine. Dan and Maxine are doing really well. You saw David when you picked me up on Friday. He looks fine, right? He's gaining weight and everything. Do you know what I said to Mum the last time she threatened to call the Children's Aid?"

I shook my head.

"What?"

"I said 'Fine Mum. Go ahead. We'll call the Children's Aid and you'll lose Emily.'"

That was one of those times, Ms Journal, when I just didn't know what to say. All I could think of was how much safer and calmer Meagan would be if she lived with me. I told her again how much I'd love to have her.

But I could see it posed a dilemma for her. She must feel that no matter what she chooses, she'll disappoint one parent or the other. So she tried a sort of compromise.

"Would it be alright if I lived with you for a month or so this summer? August, maybe?"

"Honey," I said. "It will be alright with me no matter what you do. But I want the decision to be yours. You know you're welcome at my house. Always."

It's a crazy, crazy environment that Kelly provides. Meagan knows it's abnormal, Ms J. She knows it's dysfunctional. But she feels she's powerless to escape without displeasing someone. And that's my daughter's greatest gift and her worst character flaw.

She's a people pleaser.

How do we discern what's right for us? How can we reject other people's ways without rejecting them? Where do we draw the line between self Love and selfishness?

It's a very difficult lesson to learn, isn't it? Very difficult indeed.

***

Growing Pains

Saturday. I have a few things to tell you today, Ms J.

The play went really well last night. It was arguably, the best show we’ve done so far. The entrances and exits were spot on, the light and sound cues were fine, and we actors really seemed to connect with each other, perhaps for the first time. The audience was our biggest yet (about 70 people) and they were quite receptive. I just wish we knew our lines.

Four of us are nearly letter perfect, but the other two still struggle. It makes everyone look bad. The actors who play Clive and Loretta are still missing lines, still fumbling for words. I know they haven’t much experience on stage, but surely to goodness after ten rehearsals and four performances, they should be familiar with the dialogue. The rest of us can do it. Why can’t they?

We have one more show to do tonight. It’s closing night. Of course, I’ll give my best, but I can’t help feeling glad it’s over. That’s unusual for me. Usually, when a play ends its run, I feel a bit blue for a day or two, knowing I’ll never have that same experience again. But not this time. We’ve been meeting since January to put this show together. I’m sick of it. I’m tired of the constant commitment and not being able to plan anything outside of rehearsals and meetings and shows. Mostly though, I’m tired of working with people who don’t know (or care?) what they’re doing.

I take acting fairly seriously, Ms J. I really want to do a good job on stage. And I hate it – well, my ego hates it when lack of skill or commitment on the part of others diminishes the quality of the performance. OK, let me be more precise. My ego hates it when poor acting or missed lines make me look stupid.

Heather is already talking about a sequel. I don’t think I’ll involve myself again with this group unless they find more talented actors. And I won’t make a six month commitment again, either. Lesson learned.

---

I came home to Meagan after the show last night. I collected her after school on Friday. She plans to attend tonight’s performance. The weather today is uncomfortably hot and humid. The theatre patrons will be sweltering tonight and pity the poor actors on stage wearing winter coats, hats, and mittens.

Meagan left the computer and came downstairs to chat when I got home. That was nice. She sat cross-legged on the chesterfield and I leaned back in the recliner chair. She asked how the show went and I told her. She was glad it went well, but I could tell she had more on her mind.

“I’m glad you’re here, Scout,” I said. “It’s nice to see you here when I come home.”

“I’m glad I’m here too, Dad. I’m glad to have a break from Mum.”

“Are you and Mum not getting along?” I asked.

“Not lately,” she said and bowed her head slightly to sip from a glass of juice.

I waited a minute hoping she’d offer a bit more detail and when it wasn’t forthcoming, I asked.

“What’s the matter?”

“We just fight all the time. Mum’s never happy. She’s always complaining about the house being dirty but she never cleans up. She leaves everything for me and Dan and Maxine.”

I cautioned her gently against using absolutes like always and never. I suggested often and seldom or rarely. We’ve been down that road before.

“No Dad. I’m telling you, Mum NEVER does housework anymore. She doesn’t even look after Emily. Me and Dan and Maxine look after her. Emily is not our kid, Dad. She’s Mum’s daughter. She’s her responsibility, not ours. And Dan and Maxine have their hands full with baby David.”

I agree completely with Meagan, Ms Journal, but what was I to say? Yes, Scout. Your mother is a lousy parent? I’ve known it for years, but I vowed some time ago, I’d let Dan and Meagan discover that for themselves.

“What does Mum do all day?” I asked. “Is she not feeling well?”

“She’s fine. She spends all her time on the computer. It’s like she’s addicted to MSN and YAHOO. She just sits there in the basement all day, chatting with her friends, helping them solve their problems. The internet doesn’t even work now, and she still sits there staring at it, playing Solitaire or something. She spends so much time analyzing other people’s Lives. She should take a look at her own Life.”

My daughter is perceptive, Ms J. She’s wise, I think, beyond her years. And I’m so relieved and proud that she’s beginning to see her mother as she truly is. Unfortunately, that realization is a painful one.

“When I try to tell her that, she gets all defensive. And then we fight. But she doesn’t fight fair, Dad.”

Meagan was struggling to control her emotions. She was fighting back tears and when she spoke again, her voice was trembling.

“She’s cruel. She says she’s going to get cancer like her mum did and die and it’ll be my fault. She says cancer is caused by stress and I’m giving her too much stress. She won’t stop it, Dad, until I’m crying. I try so hard … “

She was sobbing now and her mascara was running in little black rivulets down her cheeks.

“I try so hard not to cry. It seems like she wants me to cry, but I try not to. I think if I cry, then she wins and if I don’t cry …”

My heart was breaking, Ms J. I wanted to cry too, dammit. I found a tissue and handed it to her.

“I think Mum is really scared right now, Scout. She’s worried about money.”

“I know, Dad. She tells me I should go and get a job but I have so many things to do this summer. Fun things, like Teen Ranch. And Scott wants to take me to Ocean City, Maryland for a week and you said you wanted me to stay here for a week. How can I keep a job and get all that time off? I’m only fourteen. I still want to be a kid.”

She blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes.

“You’re right, Meagan,” I said. “You’re fourteen. This is supposed to be the best time of your Life. You can get a job in the fall, maybe, after school or something. Or you can wait til next summer.”

“You know why our phone is disconnected?” she asked. “Because we have no money to pay the bill, that’s why. And we can’t watch TV either, because our cable’s been turned off. Do you know how much our cable bill is, Dad? Seven hundred dollars.”

I winced. Seven hundred dollars is more than seven months worth of payments. I asked her if she understood how it could get so high and she explained it to my satisfaction. Meagan understands about paying bills and paying them on time. Good for her.

“Would you like to live here, Scout? With me?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Every time we fight, Mum says I should go and live with you. She says we just can’t get along.”

“Then why don’t you?” I asked her.

“Because every time I say I’m going to move here, she starts crying and screaming and going crazy. She tells me about her crappy childhood and how her mother never hugged her and she makes me feel guilty for even thinking about leaving her. She doesn’t even make sense sometimes, Dad. She’s just so emotional. She cries and she won’t stop until we’re both crying. I try not to, but she just hurts me and hurts me until I can’t help it.”

And my girl was sobbing again.

I opened my mouth to speak, and in Truth, I had no idea what I was going to say. Here’s what came out:

“Mummy loves you, Meagan. The real problem, I think, is that she doesn’t love herself. Don’t make that mistake, Honey. Please. Remember I love you. I love you so much, it hurts. But you must also love yourself. Know in your heart that you are beautiful, and special and loveable. This house, this home is yours whenever you want. I will be here to care for you, to love you, and to help you grow. It hurts to grow up, Scout. I know, because I’m still doing it.”

And I held her. And we cried.

***

A Tale of Two Pities

RONA. I forgot to tell you about RONA, Ms J. And why they want a thousand dollars more than Home Depot to build the same deck.

I drove up there after work on Wednesday. I took the estimate I got from Home Depot with me. It was about a dozen pages, with plans and diagrams and an itemized account of every stick of wood I’d need to build my deck. Very thorough, those Home Depot people.

But not so, their brothers at RONA. Pity.

They gave me four sheets of paper. Two were simple depictions of the completed deck. One was a blank page. And the last contained a basic (very basic) drawing of the structural framework showing dimensions, along with the price. $2438.

I stood at the lumber counter for ten minutes waiting for someone to appear. When I first arrived, there was a man ahead of me.

“Have you been waiting long?” I asked him.

He shook his head in disgust.

“Too long,” he said, and walked away.

Finally, a woman appeared and inched behind the counter. She moved like a sloth on Quaaludes.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

I told her about my deck and showed her the two estimates.

“I’d rather do business here,” I told her, “but I’m wondering why Home Depot can supply my lumber for a thousand dollars less than you guys? I mean, your price is more than sixty percent higher.”

She stared at me, eyes dull, lips parted slightly. After a long time, she blinked. I wondered if perhaps her parents were blood relatives. Brother and sister, maybe.

“I have no clue,” she said, and I believed her.

“Is there anyone who might? Have a clue, I mean.”

“Mmmm ... Dave would prob’ly know. Dave knows pretty much everything in this store.”

I nodded my head slightly.

“Good. Can I speak with Dave then?”

“Yeah, but he won’t be in until 3:00.”

It was 9:30 in the morning, Ms J. I decided not to wait for Dave.

“Is there anyone else who might be able ...”

The phone was ringing, and of course, she answered it.

“... to help me?”

I stood there and waited while she got something or other sorted out and when she hung up the phone, I asked my question again. Her answer was predictable.

“Not really, no. The manager might know, but he’s not in today. Dave’s your best bet, I think.”

The phone began to ring again and she looked at me and smiled helplessly and shrugged her shoulders.

“I gotta take this,” she said and reached for the phone. “Why don’t you just come back when Dave’s here? Do you want his card?”

“No,” I said and waved off the card thrust at me. “I just wanted an answer to a simple question.”

She was talking on the phone now and leafing through a catalogue of some sort.

“I just wanted some help," I said. "Some service. Remember ‘service’? I guess I’ve come to the wrong place.”

She didn’t hear what I said, Ms J, but she nodded and smiled as though she agreed.

I walked out of that store and I don’t reckon I’ll ever be back.

You know, I’ve noticed lately that the Americans are taking over this country, one retail giant at a time. They’ve taken over our national railway and I suppose our floundering airline industry will be next. I’m absolutely outraged that we’re letting it happen but it’s fairly obvious that if we Canadians can’t provide consumers with an acceptable level of service, we deserve to be put out of business.

It breaks my heart, Ms Journal. But it’s a fact. A damned pity, really.

I’ll order my building materials for delivery next week. From Home Depot.

***

Conversation, Not Confrontation

I've been trying to contact Meagan all week, Ms J, without success. Either through apathy or impecuniosity, (I suspect the latter) Kelly has not paid her phone bill and once again, the phone has been disconnected.

"We're sorry, but the number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and dial again."

My disappointment was turning to anger.

Meagan expressed a desire to see my play and I'd love for her to be there. She brags about having seen everything I've ever done. This is the last weekend for the play and besides, Sunday is Father's Day. But how could I contact her? Email? Kelly monopolises the computer and they suffer a dial-up connection anyway. I don't know any of their neighbours who might take a message to Meagan. I was considering driving to Norval yesterday to ask my daughter if she'd like to visit me this weekend. I had a rehearsal after work so I'd have to drive out there after 10:00 pm. While there, I decided I'd give her fuckwit mother a piece of my mind. Three able-bodied adults in that home, and not one of them can go out and get a job.

My blood was beginning to simmer as I stood in the kitchen yesterday morning, with the phone in my hand. Meagan's in school all day while I'm home. How can I contact her, I wondered?

Then it hit me. School. I can call her school and ask them to have Meagan phone me.

So that's what I did. Mike was here when the phone rang. I knew it was my Scout and I interrupted our conversation to race for the phone.

"Hello?"

"You rang, Dad?"

It was Meagan. I was so pleased to hear from her that I couldn't stop grinning.

"Hi Scout! Thanks for calling me back. I've been trying to reach you at home but there's something wrong with your phone."

Kelly has fed her a peck of bullshit. I expected she would.

"Yeah, Dad. Mum forgot to make one payment and now the phone company's dicking us around. We're switching phone companies now anyway. Mum's sick of their attitude."

I knew this was not entirely true, Ms J, but I let it slide and said nothing.

"Anyway, what's the matter?" she asked then. "And make it quick please, 'cuz I haven't had my lunch yet."

I told her this was the last week for the play and that I hoped she'd come to see dear ol' dad on stage again.

"Sure, Dad. I'd love to see your play. And this one especially 'cuz you wrote it, right?"

"Well, I wrote some of it, Scout. But I didn't write the whole thing."

"OK. Whatever. Are you picking me up on Friday then?"

"How 'bout 4:30?" I said. "Will you be home from school and ready to go by 4:30?"

"Yup. That's fine. But I gotta go, OK Dad? My friends are waiting for me."

"OK, Hun. See you on Friday then. 4:30."

"Bye Dad."

"Bye Meagan."

That's better, Ms Journal. I feel better now. Not anxious anymore. Or angry. I spoke with my "best and favouritest" girl and she's coming to visit me this weekend. I didn't have to talk to Kelly and she in turn, was spared my wrath.

God is good, Ms J. All the time.

***

The Heart of a Man

I was on my way home from RONA this morning when I saw a friend near the public library here in Mimico. He looked a bit lost. I opened the car window and yelled to him.

"Hey Mike! Where are you going, you silly ol' bugger?"

He jogged over to the car and smiled at me through the passenger side window.

"I was going to the library to use their internet."

"Well, I'm going home to have some lunch," I said. "Will you join me? You're welcome to use my computer."

So we had lunch together, Mike and I. My friend has recently separated from his wife of 24 years. He's understandably upset.

"I've got to learn to control my temper," he told me as we dined on barbecued hamburgers and pasta salad. "I hear somebody screaming like a deranged idiot and then I realise it's me. I don't even know who I am anymore. But I'm getting better, though. It's been a couple of months now. The house is sold and I'm starting to feel a bit calmer."

I remember those days all too well, Ms J. Donna was gone, I had nowhere to live and no access to the crystal meth I needed. Somehow, though, I managed to go to work every day and do my job, although not safely. They were trying times, indeed.

I tried to listen to Mike and not offer too much advice. But I know what I know. It'll take a man between two and five years to recover from a failed marriage. Some, it seems, never fully recover. Some cling to anger and bitterness for the rest of their days, never again finding the Light of true contentment. I didn't mention this to my friend. He can't absorb things like that yet, although I hope and pray he will one day. For now, he's too caught up in anger and fear. For now, he's too involved in the emotion of it, and rightfully so.

"Have you found a place to live?" I asked him.

"Not yet," he said. "But I'm working on it. Do you feel like driving around the neighbourhood with me and looking for apartments for rent?"

I told him that would be fine but I wanted to tidy up first. As I washed the dishes, I listened to him talk and rant and worry.

"She's crippled me financially for the rest of my Life. She's getting $1300 a month in spousal support. And she'll get half of my pension. I don't even have a home. The lawyers are getting rich but I'll never have anything. She gets the gold mine. I get the shaft."

We shared a laugh at his choice of words, Ms J, but I could tell Mike's mind was going 100 mph in fifty different directions. I wanted to grab him, to put my arms around him and squeeze him tight and beg him to slow down. He tired me out just listening to him!

Mike will be in my prayers. I pray he'll get through this mucky, painful mess and move to discover how wonderful and exciting Life can be, even without a wife.

I did. It took the better part of five years, Ms Journal, but I did it. And he will too.

***

Sloggin'. No Time For Bloggin'.

I've been busy, Ms J. Back yard busy. I've got my vegetable garden planted, finally. I've got a few herbs and some parsley. And this year, I'm trying to grow Brussells Sprouts. I bought four tomato plants from a local nursery and the next day, Christine gave me eight more. She got them from her cousin, Vicki, who grows vegetables for a living in Prince Edward County. I put a couple of the plants in my garden and gave the rest away to my neighbours. I should call Campbell's Soup to see if they'll need any tomatoes later this summer!

I'm planning to start building my deck next week and so I've been preparing the site. I've removed a lot of large stones, some as big as my head, and leveled the ground as much as possible. Bob was here today and he helped me fetch twelve bags of crushed limestone to help carry rainwater away from the outside wall of the house. The bags weigh over thirty kilos (70 lbs.) each, Ms J. I was grateful for Bob's help. Once the deck is built, it will be very difficult to make repairs if the foundation ever leaks. The basement has never been wet, but the crushed stone grading will add a little insurance against that possibility.

I got two estimates for materials. Home Depot and RONA. Home Depot stores are big, popular, ubiquitous ... and American. RONA is a Canadian company. I'm a good Canadian and I planned to buy my lumber and building materials from RONA. That is, until I got their estimate. Home Depot estimated $1473. for materials to build my deck. RONA would charge $2435. to build the same deck. A thousand dollars more??!

As I said, I'm a loyal Canadian. But for $1000., I guess I'll support the Yanks. First though, I plan to talk with someone at RONA to find out why they're so much more expensive and to ask if they can meet Home Depot's price. I'd really rather shop Canadian.

But a thousand bucks ... Sheesh!!

***

Taking Up Heather's Challenge

A while back, Heather at Fumbling For Words challenged her readers to take her meme. "I Live .."

I promised her I'd do it, so without further ado ... I do.

---

I live - in a semi-detached home in the south-west corner of Toronto, the capital city of Ontario.
I live - alone and have come to like it that way.
I live - a few hundred metres from the north shore of Lake Ontario, one of the largest bodies of fresh water in the world.
I live - close to work. It's a fifteen minute walk, a six minute bike ride, or one song on the CD player in the car.
I live - 10 km from Union Station, Toronto's downtown railway station.
I live - close to public transit, close to paved bicycle paths, but I usually drive.
I live - in a house built in the 1920's. It has gorgeous hardwood floors, Oak trim and high ceilings. I loved it at first sight.
I live - next door to a family of seven children and two adults. The children are polite and well-mannered. The parents are friendly and hospitable.
I live - in a building I share with an elderly man and his son. Danny and Dave live in the other half of my duplex home. They're very quiet and great neighbours.
I live - within a twenty minute bike ride of the house where I grew up. My sister, Jill bought the house from my parents, so I can go there anytime I want.
I live - within a seven minute walk of my church: Wesley Mimico United.
I live - within easy walking distance of a wonderful cafe, a decrepit grocery store, my bank, a hardware store, and a lovely restaurant.
I live - thirty-five minutes from my kids.
I live - in the province where I was born.
I live - in a city that is known for its cleanliness and proliferation of green spaces.
I live - among new Canadians: Russians and Poles.
I live - in a house on a deep, narrow lot. My back yard is like a bowling alley.
I live - in the house with the crumbling front porch covered with cheap, green indoor/outdoor carpeting.
I live - close to two of my four sisters, but I see a further one more often.
I live - forty-five minutes from my brother.
I live - two hours away from my mum and dad.
I live - fifty km from my first ex-wife and my kids.
I live - 6000 km from my second ex-wife.
I live - in a two story house with half a garage. The garage was severed some years ago in a property dispute.
I live - too close to an apartment building full of welfare cases who sit on the front lawn and drink and holler all summer.
I live - sometimes with worry and fear for myself and for my kids. All of it is self-manufactured and much (all?) of it is unnecessary.
I live - with loneliness, but rarely.
I live - in a home with a television that is rarely switched on.
I live - in a world that’s getting smaller, but much harder to understand.
I live - in a house I'm proud of and where friends are always welcome.
I live - in a body that's healthy and with a mind and spirit that's usually open to new growth.
I live - secure in the knowledge that God loves me. Dan and Meagan love me too. Lots of people love me. I am lovable. And I love me too.

Where do YOU live?

***

Three Down. Three To Go.

We had another show tonight, Ms Journal. It was our third show, and our best one so far. There were a few little challenges, but we met each one and worked together to find our way through. Team work. Confidence in our own abilities. And trust in our fellow actors. That's what we're learning. Every show is a rehearsal for the one that follows. I can sense the others are feeling more comfortable, and in Truth, I am too. I've been very supportive of the weakest ones, spending time with them before each show, running lines and reminding them they're fabulous.

But I am tired, Ms J. We all are. There are no more shows now until Thursday. We'll meet on Wednesday for an "Italian" line run. A line run is simply sitting together and staying focused and reciting our lines without moving or "acting." "Italian" means doing it as fast as possible. It's a good exercise to help remember lines. Many directors employ this technique in place of a full rehearsal after the play is up and running.

Do actors know their lines "word for word"? They are supposed to. Good actors do. The playwright expects actors to adhere to the script he/she has worked hard to write. Indeed, when a play is adjudicated (judged) as part of a drama festival or other competition, the adjudicator has a copy of the script open and deducts points for failure to adhere to it.

But knowing the words is not enough. The most important lesson for new actors is to learn not only the lines, but the intent behind them. If you simply recite the lines without knowing why you're saying them, what you mean by it, and what you hope to accomplish, the scene will be flat and lifeless. Some of our scenes are ... well, flat, Ms J. And lifeless.

But we have three more chances to improve. So far, each show has been an improvement over the last. We'll perform next Thursday, Friday and Saturday. If we continue to improve this way, Saturday's show promises to be fab!

Fingers crossed.

***

Opening Night

We did it, Ms J. We actually performed our little play for an audience. There were a few people who showed up last night for the dress rehearsal and although they offered compliments on a job well done, I know we were not very good. Dianne and Suzanne and Laura, actor friends from Caledon were among the audience. I really wished we had done a better job.

Tonight though, we were much better. Loretta remembered her lines (most of them) with the help of a script hidden inside a Bible. There were a few glitches, some missed dialogue (some of it mine) and a couple of late sound cues, but overall I think we did a pretty good job.

And speaking of pretty, Ms J, there were two pretty girls in the audience tonight: Carolyn from church, who was there with a friend, and the lovely and talented Girl Alex about whom I've written before. Also in attendance were two couples from church: the Seeley's and the Grenville's. All offered words of praise and encouragement. They're my friends so of course they were supportive. The audience was small (perhaps 18 or 20) but appreciative. I could sense the energy we received from the bits of laughter and applause. Its effect was obvious and most welcome.

After we took our curtain call and the curtains closed again, I stretched my arms and took everyone in a big group hug. The smiles were bright and contagious, the pride, evident.

The most important thing to come out of tonight's performance is the assurance that we can indeed do this play. We all gained some confidence, I think, in the realization that if we stay focused and really listen to what's happening, we can perform this play from beginning to end and without stopping to ask for help.

And at this point in the process, Ms J, that's the best we could possibly ask for.

***

Postponed

Opening night has been postponed.

The play will not open tonight, Ms J. The eight people who had reserved tickets for tonight's show have been notified, offered refunds and invited to attend tonight's dress rehearsal instead. Although Heather was successful in finding a woman to replace "Loretta", the original actress has indicated that she'd still like to try doing the show. Heather has agreed.

Part of the mandate of Heather's company is to allow new actors a chance to appear on stage for the first time. So be it. In Truth though, the new actress is MUCH better than the original one, and I was secretly hoping she'd be doing the show. Even as she read the part from the script last night, she was more credible than the old "Loretta". But we all have to start somewhere, don't we? We all have to do a "first" show ever.

So tonight, there will be another dress rehearsal, this time with the original cast. The show will open tomorrow night. There will be ...... huge gaps in the, ah ... dia ... er, I mean, the ummm .... speeches of the actors who ... I mean of the performers who don't .... who haven't .... er, um, who haven't ..... yeah, who haven't learned their lines yet.

Damn, I find that frustrating!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

***

Another Twist

Yes, Ms J, I'm still on about the play. It's the biggest thing in my Life at the moment. So get used to it.

We began this project back in February. Six of us met weekly, then twice weekly, to collaborate on writing a script for a play. Understandably, the story underwent numerous permutations and reincarnations before we called a halt to it and began rehearsing. That eventful day was just over a fortnight ago.

I wrote earlier of my concerns regarding the very weak cast. Heather and I are really the only ones who've done any serious acting -- Heather much more than I. One particular cast member is clearly the weakest. She's a lovely person, Ms J. Warm, gracious, kind, funny. But she has NEVER acted before. And it's obvious she's terrified of opening night. She wouldn't feel nearly as much stress about it if only she'd learn her lines. I don't know why she hasn't learned them. The rest of us have studied our scripts and are familiar with the text. The rest of us have done our homework. Frankly Ms J, I think she's a bit thick.

I know what you're thinking. What a nasty thing to say about a fellow actor! About anyone! But I'm on another of my rants, dammit, and I want to vent.

Heather is the director and also a cast member. She phoned me up this morning.

"I've got some disturbing news, Dale. I hope it won't make you crazy but I just called "Loretta" and I spoke with her son. He says his mum won't be able to attend rehearsal tonight. She has a headache and sick stomach."

I was disturbed to hear it. Opening night is tomorrow. TOMORROW!! And she's in greater need of rehearsal than any of the others. She complained of a sore leg a while ago and skipped a rehearsal. Lately, it's been her hip that's causing her to be distracted and miss her entrances and lines.

"Did you ask to speak with Loretta, Heather?" I asked.

"Yes, I did. Her son told me she'd gone to the hospital and he wasn't sure when she'd be back."

I'm sorry, Ms J, but I think this is a lie. I think the woman is nearly paralysed with fear about performing in front of an audience. She hasn't bothered to learn her lines and now she's buggered. Trouble is, she's buggering us as well.

"Do you know anyone who might fill in for her, Dale? Is there a Jamaican actress you know of who could possibly read Loretta's part?"

I shook my head and sighed loudly.

"No, Heather. I can't think of anyone."

And then I got an idea.

"I wonder if it would help if you told Loretta she could take her script on stage? Maybe she'd feel more confident if she knew she could read her lines. I really want her to be part of the production. She's been involved from day one. She's got the accent and everything. She's perfect for the part, Heather. If only she knew her lines."

Heather suggested we could put her lines in a Bible and Loretta could carry that with her on the stage. The play is set in a streetcar (trolley car) and the characters spend much of their time sitting. It would be simple for Loretta to keep her Bible open in her lap and refer to it as needed. (Her character is a devout Christian.)

So that's where things stand at the moment, Ms J. We've got a play written and rehearsed for six people, but we have only five we can rely on.

Stay tuned for further developments.

***

Different Strokes For Different Folks

Q. What does a Polish man give his bride on their wedding day that is long and hard?

A. A last name.

---

I went for a walk around my neighbourhood this evening. It was a lovely evening and I wanted to post some flyers for our play on local lamp posts. Twice my work was interrupted by people telling me not to post any flyers.

"You're not allowed to do that, ya know. They'll just rip them down again."

How are we supposed to advertise our play, Ms J? And what harm is there in posting a few little bits of paper around the hood?

"Oh well," was my retort. "I'll keep putting up signs until I'm arrested and imprisoned."

I wonder why people don't just mind their own business?

A number of times, I encountered folks on the sidewalk. Couples, families, friends out strolling. I would approach them and ask if they were interested in seeing a play. Time after time, I found people who couldn't or wouldn't speak English. After a few such encounters, I began to preface my spiel with "Do you speak English?"

I don't mean to sound xenophobic, Ms J, but I found myself getting upset with the lack of English speaking Canadians here in Mimico. I mean, there I was, not three kilometres from where I grew up and I may as well have been strolling the streets of Warsaw. Or Leningrad. Maybe they were just not interested in what I was "selling", but a simple no thank you would have sufficed.

"Polish. No English."

"I am Russia. English no."

I would smile each time and nod my head and walk away, but I wanted to say, "Canada. No Poland." Or "I am Canadian. We speak English here, or French." I didn't say any of that, of course. That would have been rude. But I tell you truly, Ms Journal, if ever I were to emigrate to a foreign country, I would make it a top priority to learn to speak that language. That's the kind of guy I am. I would want to fit in. I would want to be accepted as one of them, an equal.

Many years ago, Canada officially adopted a policy of multiculturalism. It's good, Ms J. It's right and I'm proud we accept other cultures and other religions and ideologies. Toronto is, according to recent studies, the most culturally diverse city in the world. More even than New York or London. Literally hundreds of languages are spoken here and from every country on the planet.

But perhaps school children here in Mimico should be taught Polish or Russian instead of the compulsory French. They'll have few opportunities to speak French, but they won't have to walk far to find a "no English" Pole or Russian.

***

A New Attitude

As you know, Ms J, I've been worrying about this play. A lot. At first, I was worried because I didn't believe in the script we had written. Now I've come to believe that we've written a really good story, but I'm afraid we'll spoil it in the presentation. I must tell you, there will be a dearth of experience on stage Thursday night and it will no doubt be obvious to the audience. There are six of us in the cast and only two have ever done a play before. None of us is completely familiar with our lines. One actor hasn't a clue ... Another is in dire need of a bath.

Mercifully, the opening night audience will be small. So far, the only ones who've reserved tickets are my friend Christine and her mum. Steenie has always supported me. She's my friend. I know she'll still love me if I look like an idiot on stage. And she can easily afford the $15 admission price. I just find it so disheartening that we've spent so much time and worked so hard only to falter or fail in our final effort. The Truth is, we spent way too much time in the writing of it, and we've had little time to rehearse.

Everyone is tense. Everyone is worried. We rehearsed for eight hours yesterday and rather than building our confidence, I think it only showed us how unprepared we are. Heather took me aside and spoke with me.

"I know you feel stressed, Dale," she said. "And I know why. I understand. But please try hard not to appear despondent to the others. They look to you for help and guidance. They look up to you as the 'experienced' one. If you appear to have given up hope, how must they feel?"

Heather's right, Ms J. And I'm sorry. Starting today, I promise to put on a brave face. I'll work with the others (especially the weakest ones) and offer lots of encouragement. I'll tell them we're fabulous and assure them all will be well on opening night. That's what we need, isn't it? Confidence.

At home last night, I visited Dictionary.com and looked up the meaning of the word "play". I was surprised to find some forty definitions and topping the long list was this item:

1. To occupy oneself in amusement

Of course! It's a play we're doing. It's playtime! Yes, we'll stumble. Yes, we'll falter and sputter. But the most important thing is the fun factor. If it's not fun, Ms Journal, then why on earth have I spent half of this year doing it? It won't be perfect, I know. But if we have fun on stage, come what may, the people in the audience will enjoy it too. Both of them.

***

Daddy and Daughter Go To The Zoo

Sounds like the title of a children's book, doesn't it?

Scout and I went to the zoo today. It was her birthday. She's fourteen. Fourteen!

"It feels good to be a real teenager, Dad, and not just a tween, or whatever they call it."

We've been to the zoo every birthday for about seven years or so. It's a tradition. It just feels right. We didn't go last year, though.

"Yeah, I remember Dad. "You had your broken leg and we were fighting. That kinda sucked, didn't it?"

Gosh, Ms J. If she only knew how my heart ached last summer ... But we won't revisit that painful place. We'll move forward, out of the dark and into the Light.

I picked her up at home this morning. I was running a bit late and so I tried phoning to let her know. Kelly hasn't paid her phone bill (again) and so the phone's been cut off. Again. I was only about twenty minutes late. Kelly and Tim were still in bed. Maxine had gone to visit her grandad. Dan was up, changing a dirty diaper and Meagan was ready to go with me. Dan's really being a good dad, I think. He really seems to enjoy spending time with baby David. The baby's just nine weeks old.

"Give me your camera," Meagan said. "I'll take a multi-generational shot of the three of you."


Doesn't Dan look proud, Ms J?

I really like that picture. I love my son, really I do. But I wish so much he'd find a job. I am really pleased with the way he's adjusted to being a father, though. He bathes the baby and changes smelly diapers. He even gets up for night-time feedings.

I enjoyed a nice visit with Dan and David. I got to hold the baby for a while and he even smiled at me!


He's a squirmy little guy, though. If you're not careful, he'll wriggle right out of your arms.

---

It was nearly noon when we arrived at the Metro Toronto Zoo. Our zoo is a world class facility set on 700 acres in the Rouge River Valley. It's home to some 5,000 animals and hosts over a million visitors each year.

We had a fantastic day, Meagan and I. We walked a bit and rode the zoo-mobile. We ate junk food and laughed at the animals, both four-legged and two-legged. We saw lions and zebras and giraffes in the African area. We laughed at the two polar bears who seemed almost human as they played and splashed in the cold water at the Americas exhibit.


A man took our photo in the Malayan pavillion.

We saw kangaroos and wallabies in the Australian pavilion, where Meagan took this photo of a very friendly Kookaburra.


He seemed so tame!

We saw aquaria full of colourful fish from the Great Barrier Reef and I thought of our sweet little Aussie, Michelle.


I think she lives around here somewhere.

The sun remained hidden behind heavy clouds all day, but not a drop of rain fell. The temperature was perfect for being outdoors and walking. It was a week day so there were no crowds and we got an excellent parking spot straight away.

"You know, Dad," said my girl as she worked to finish an ice cream sandwich, "when we first got here, I thought it was going to be a bit of a boring day. But I've had a great time. Thanks."


"And it was a lot more fun than going to school today."

Happy Birthday, Scout! I love you to the moon and back!

***

The Right Choice

"Can you post some more flyers in your neighbourhood?" asked Heather after rehearsal last night. "And drop some flyers off at local shops?"

"Sure!" I said. "I can do that. No problem."

But today, I had so much to do that I was forced to weigh priorities and select only those tasks I deemed most important.

The flyers will have to wait. I didn't wrap the gift I got for Meagan's birthday yet either. And the lawn didn't get cut, the house didn't get cleaned, the laundry wasn't done and I didn't make it to the bank or to the grocery store. I didn't phone Mum either. Or Larry. Or Mike. Or Girl Alex. My tomatoes aren't planted. I opted not to have breakfast. And I still haven't had lunch.

I chose sleep, Ms J. I made a conscious decision to become unconscious. Sleep was what I needed most this morning, so sleep is the gift I gave myself. Sweet slumber, uninterrupted. I crawled back into my bed at 9:30 and slept soundly until after 1:00.

I've been up every morning this week at 3:45 and it's been 11:00 pm when I finally returned my head to the pillow each night. There's another rehearsal planned for tonight. And tomorrow, I'm taking the day off work to go to the zoo with Meagan. We've made the trip on her birthday every year since she was a little girl.

Sleep, Ms Journal. It was definitely the right choice.

***