This Morning's Musings

Do you think blind people dream, Ms J? Seriously. I mean, if a person is blind from birth, they have no visual concept of anything. Right? So how can they dream without "visions"? And while we're on that strange subject, what about deaf people? What do their thoughts sound like? If they've never experienced spoken language, then how can they formulate a thought? When I think something, Ms J, I "say" it in my head. What if I didn't know any words? What would my thoughts "sound" like?

I know. It's been a weird morning.

Canadian National Railway announced huge profits recently. Bigger than expected. Up more than 10% over the same quarter last year. And they want to take our jobs away. December 18th. I try not to think about it. Ten percent more profit. I wonder when they'll be satisfied? How much is enough?

I watched the sunrise today. I adore sunrises. There's something magical and awe-inspiring in a sunrise. I don't experience a sunset in the same way at all. Oh sure, it's pretty. But a sunset doesn't hold the same spiritual meaning for me.

As I watched the lake give birth to the bright orange disk, I marveled again that it was a new beginning for me - for everyone. A fresh start. With each new day comes another opportunity to get it right. And I felt so filled with joy, I nearly laughed out loud.

For a few miles east of the city, the train tracks follow the shore of Lake Ontario. I always enjoy that portion of the trip. There's so much to see: Beaches, now deserted for the season. Tree-filled parks and paved bike paths. Joggers clad in shorts and t-shirts, their breath visible in the cool morning air.

This morning I wondered what it might have looked like there before we changed it all to suit us. How might it have looked to the countless generations of Aboriginal peoples who cared for and about this area? I imagined wildlife - deer, fox, lynx, mink and marten. Wolves, maybe. Or coyotes. Beaver and muskrat. Porcupines. Raccoons. And birds. Great flocks of birds that might nearly have darkened the sky. Gone now, nearly all of them. But we have our lovely parks, don't we? We have our homes and our cars. And our trains. And our nuclear power plant across the bay.

There are so many of us now, Ms J. And we're so selfish. What shall we leave to generations yet to come?

Baby David will come home on Thursday. What kind of Life can he expect? What chance does he have with that tribe of hooligans, poor little bugger? With Dan. Maxine. And Kelly. I never thought I'd say this, Ms J, but I worry about that little man. Yeah, I do.

I spoke with Nick this morning and told him about David.

"See?" I said. "You're not the only one with problems."

Why must Life be so difficult sometimes? And then you grow old and die.

"Chill out, man," said Nick. "The Universe is unfolding as it should."

He's right, of course. I know this. I often use that hackneyed expression myself. But still, it doesn't stop me from worrying sometimes. Or musing and meandering.

Peace, Ms J. See you tomorrow.

***

A Cure For Blind Rage

Well, I'm not cured, Ms J. I'm still angry. I'm still appalled, quite frankly, by Kelly's disreputable lifestyle and its pernicious effect on my kids. But I drove to Norval straight away after church yesterday and met with Dan and Meagan and I do feel a bit easier.

Rev. Linda's sermon was based on the story of a blind beggar and how Jesus had restored his sight. "Your faith has made you well," said Jesus. And that's about all I can remember about it.

I went to church on Sunday, but I really didn't participate in the service. I didn't join in the hymns or open a hymn book. I didn't participate in the unison reading or recite the United Church creed. I don't recall hearing the choir's anthem and I can't even remember if we said the Lord's prayer, but I'm sure we did.

I just wasn't there.

"I didn't get much out of it this week," I lamented as I snatched my coat and hat from the rack in the narthex and hurried down the concrete steps toward Mimico Avenue. "I don't know why I bothered going. I wish Kelly would go to church. She's such a ..."

I couldn't come up with the right curse.

But as I scurried toward my car on Station Road, I was aware of a song in my head. It was a hymn. We'd sung it that morning.

"Open my eyes that I may see
Glimpses of Truth Thou hast for me.
Place in my hand the wonderful key
That shall unclasp and set me free."

That's all I could recall and it kept going round in my head.

I looked up and the sun was shining on the autumn colours. The clouds were racing across the sky and the wind shook the trees vigorously, commanding them to discard their bright frocks.

"Open my eyes that I may see ..."

I decided then to drive to Norval, apologise to Kelly, and express my concern about David. So I did.

Dan and Maxine were there. Meagan too. And Dan's friend, Tony.

"Hi guys!" I said when they opened the door. "Can I come in?"

I heard an account of the events that lead to the police and Children's Aid arriving to take the baby. It began with an argument between Dan and his mother and escalated until everyone was screaming and making threats.

"Meagan was really the only rational one, Dad. She tried to calm everyone down. I called Scott on the phone and Tim unplugged it. That's when I really went nuts. And Tim called the cops."

I wondered where Kelly was.

"Now, ya mean? She's in bed."

I glanced at my watch. It was nearly 1:00. I raised my eyebrows.

"She was drunk last night, eh? Pissed drunk. The neighbour brought her home at 4:00 a.m. She'd just finished puking on their couch."

Sigh ....

So I didn't apologise to Kelly, Ms J. I didn't have to. Well, I couldn't, could I? Was I disappointed? Nope.

I told the kids I love them and implored Dan again not to let Mum push his buttons.

"She pushes yours, doesn't she, Dad? Still."

I had to concede his point.

Meagan wants to see my play next weekend. And David's coming home on Thursday. No police, Dan says. No courts.

"I'm gettin' my boy back on Thursday, Dad. We'll be a family again."

Well thank God for that. All is well, Ms J, ... until next time.

***

Brilliant!

That was better, Ms J. Much, much better.

We were fabulous! All of us. Opening night was by far our best performance yet. I know. We still have nine more shows to do, but this one was important. This one showed us that we really CAN do it. And we can do it well.

It was a huge confidence booster.

There were only twenty in the audience but they really enjoyed it. And they didn't laugh inappropriately.

I'm going to trust teachers from now on. Thanks, Jenny!

***

Not Good

Well, we got through it, Ms J, but it wasn't pretty.

The curtain opened on our "preview show" last night and I really felt as though my performance was lacklustre. It seemed that I was going through the motions instead of going through emotions. I'm not saying I was terrible, but it certainly wasn't my best work. I'm capable of better, Ms Journal, and I know it.

I'd had a stressful afternoon at work. My boss, the contemptable, sneering, arrogant worm that he is, came out to ride on the locomotive with us. I had nothing to say to him. NOT ONE WORD. I didn't dare open my mouth for fear of what might come out. Thankfully, he didn't spend the entire afternoon with us. I suppose he sensed the tension and opted to leave instead. I mean what does he expect from me? He gave me ten demerits for booking rest (We're ALLOWED to do that, Ms J. It's been a right under our labour agreement for a hundred years) and he gave me another ten demerits for my alleged involvement in that red light incident in August. Now, he wants to take away our jobs on December 18th. I have nothing to say to the man. At all. I don't even acknowledge him.

Anyway, it was shite, my afternoon.

Then I drove to Caledon in pouring rain. In heavy traffic. When I got there, I discovered someone had taken/hidden/moved/stolen a hat I need as a prop. It was my own hat, Ms J. A favourite. I'm pissed off about that.

And when the play began, I was feeling anything but centred.

I missed lines. I was horribly late for an entrance. I just didn't feel a part of it at all. Others missed lines as well. ALL the others. And there was a non-existant sound cue which left me sitting at the piano, pretending to play, but making no sound. At all. We persevered and carried on, though. The show must go on. Anyone can make a mistake. Lord knows I made enough of them.

As I delivered one of my lengthy and emotional speeches, I was aware of whispering and twittering in the theatre. It would have been bad enough, had it come from a patron, but it was coming from the sound booth. Can you believe it? I was livid and I let them know about it at the intermission. I guess they don't know how difficult it is to recall the lines, and stay on track, and find the emotion, and stay in character. This is the hardest play I've ever done, Ms J. I'm not kidding.

And the audience. Well, there were about twenty people in the seats. They were all club members who'd come out to support the show, and I'm grateful, really I am. But they laughed, Ms J! They laughed when Scottie told his ex-wife he was dying. They laughed when he told her how afraid he was. They laughed when he cried.

What the f...?

How does that make me feel as an actor? Either I'm not doing it right, or they're just not getting it.

They even laughed at the end when Scottie finally reconciles with his son. There's this beautiful scene where he invites the boy to join him on stage and surprises him with a kiss on the lips. I get emotional just thinking of it. But they laughed there too. I guess we didn't do a very good job.

And then, as a grand finale to an entirely crappy performance, the stage hands (exchange students from Germany who barely speak English) closed the curtain in the middle of the final scene.

I lost it, Ms J. I completely lost it.

I grabbed the heavy curtain and tried desperately to keep it open as we delivered our closing lines.

"Fuckers!" I muttered under my breath. "You fuckers!"

Actually, it was a bit louder than a mutter, Ms J. Other actors heard it. I'm not sure if the audience heard it or not. I hope not. It was a disgraceful thing to do, and I'm sorry and ashamed.

But it was not opening night, thank goodness. The audience were all actors and stage people. They would take it all in stride, knowing how frustrating it can be when you work so hard only to have things fall apart.

Tonight is opening night.

I'll do better tonight. We all will. We couldn't do much worse.

***

Opening Night Jitters

We do our first real show tonight. It’s a preview show actually, and open only to members of our drama club. Full costumes, lights and sound. All the props. And hopefully, all the lines.

I get the feeling sometimes that this show hasn’t been very well organised. There were other projects underway at the theatre as we moved through the rehearsal process, but still ... It feels as though this production was not, and is not the main focus. There are a number of young people involved this time. They open scrim and curtains and act as stage hands to place and strike props on stage as necessary. I don’t know, Ms J. It just seems like there’s a lack of real commitment to this show. But maybe that’s just the old, neurotic Dale talking.

My character’s pants are quite important in this story. They fall down twice. It’s funny and sad at the same time. I’ve been stressing a great deal over these silly pants. The ones I was given from wardrobe are too big and look ridiculous. Another pair are too small and don’t fall down easily. Yesterday, I went out and bought some pants. $70. It’s not the money, Ms J, it’s the fact that I had to get my own pants. I’ve never had to buy clothes for a play before.

I don’t know. I’m probably making a mountain out of a molehill. It’s true I always worry about things just before a play opens. But this play is different than any I’ve done before. I don’t mean to sound boastful, but it’s true that my character – Scottie Templeton, carries this entire play. The story, from beginning to end, is about him. He has masses of dialogue to deliver and his role requires some very serious acting ability. I wonder sometimes if it’s not just a bit beyond my ability.

In one key scene, Scottie comes to grips with the fact that he’s dying and he breaks down and cries as he talks to his ex-wife about it. It’s a beautiful scene, very touching. Scottie is quite surprised by his tears. He’s always been a comedian, a funny guy. And even as he cries, he continues to crack jokes.

It’s a VERY difficult scene, Ms J, and frankly, it scares me half to death.

Maybe I should heed the advice given to Scottie by his friend, Lou.

“Get a grip, kid. Nobody likes a whiner.”

I can do this, Ms J. I’ve read the script about a thousand times. I know my lines. I must trust that the others know their lines as well.

It’s amateur dramatics, Ms J. Community theatre. We’re not professionals. We do this for fun. Fun. And if it’s not fun, then why on earth do it? It’ll be alright, won’t it?

The official opening is tomorrow night.

***

Nature: My Gentle Teacher

My thoughts have been swirling like dry leaves in an autumn gale. The play. My job. My friends. My Self. It's all too much, Ms J. I get over-whelmed at times. I can't do it all. Everyone hurts. Everyone needs help. So much sadness around me.

Worry.

Tears.

Anger.

Fear. Mine. And theirs.

This morning, on my way back to the yard, I encountered a red signal and stopped my train atop the bridge that spans little Mimico Creek. Normally, there's not much more than a trickle of water there, but we've had a lot of rain lately. A lot. So the creek is more like a river. The water has a noticeable current and from the short wooden bridge, it's only a few hundred yards to the lake. Lake Ontario.

As I gazed along the ravine, there came a gust of wind and thousands of bright yellow leaves were suddenly, helplessly airborne. I watched as the wind held them aloft for a moment before setting them gently down. Many of them landed in the muddy creek where the flowing stream whisked them silently away to an unknown fate.

"They don't seem concerned at all," I thought. "Those little yellow blighters are completely helpless against the will of nature, but they seem to accept their fate so placidly. They can't possibly know where they're being taken. They haven't a clue what will happen to them. They don't know that they're on their way to a Great Lake where their decaying bodies will provide oxygen and nutrients to allow other Life forms to flourish. Life forms they cannot even imagine."

I smiled as the leaves rode some ripples and then danced nimbly around moss-covered rocks.

"They're not fighting this," I marveled quietly to myself. "They're actually enjoying the ride!"

And suddenly, Ms J, I was visited by a kind of quiet calm. I felt my face relax and my shoulders drop. I was aware of my breath which came in and out in a slow, steady rhythm. The rhythm of Life itself.

I can be a leaf. Be leaf. A beleafer. A single fat tear found my cheek and tickled as it slid down.

I don't know what will happen with my job. I'm not sure how things will go with this play I'm doing. No one can predict what will become of Nick or Allan. Or Dave and Pat Loner. Or my sister, Helen.

But I know this: We're all leaves, fragile and finite, in the great river of Time. Our ultimate destination and our final fate are both obscured. But if we can just find a way to relax and enjoy the ride, Ms J ... If we can only imagine that we each have a tiny but important role to fulfill in some great, grand scheme ...

Well then, there's hope isn't there? Hoping and waiting, Ms J. Remember?

And as I wrote in my sermon last summer, "It's the hoping that makes the waiting bearable."

Amen.

***

Some Thoughts About My Job

Saturday. It’s the weekend. Nothing to do and nowhere to go. Lord, it feels good to enjoy a “Dale” day!

It’s 2:30 in the afternoon and here’s what I’ve done so far today:

Woke up at 8:00. Had breakfast. Read my script. Shopped for groceries for dinner. Oh and I made a few phone calls to my family – Mum and Jill and June to let them know I am still alive. When I get busy with a play, I tend to be very selfish with my time alone. I devote so much time to the play and spend so many hours with others, that I guard my alone time quite conscientiously.

I’ve a lovely pork roast in the oven and the sweet smell of sage is wafting upstairs to delight me here as I sit at the computer. Potatoes are peeled. Carrots sliced. And broccoli. They all wait in pots on the stove. All I have to do now is turn the heat on. No, Ms J. I’m not really expecting guests for dinner. In Truth, I hope no one pops by. But if I do have unexpected company, (it happens sometimes) I’ll be ready. And if nobody calls, then I’ll have roast pork enough to feed me all next week.

---

On Thursday last, I wrote about being worried at work.

“And I worry too much about my job.”

I said then, that I’d expound on it later. Today’s the day. Sit back, Ms Journal and get comfy. I’ll have a wee sip of wine and explain what’s been on my mind this week. And in my heart.

There’s a gloomy pall that hangs over everything at work lately. Everyone’s affected. Even the most cheerful guys frown and shake their heads in muted puzzlement and concern. December 18th. That’s the date we’re all talking about. That’s the date CN has announced they’ll begin operating our GO trains with only one engineer instead of the current two. About forty men will be affected. I’ll be among them.

The company tried this once before you know. A couple of years ago. But the federal transport ministry forbade it. They offered a long list of conditions that had to be met before it could happen. But that was a couple of years ago. I’m sure the company has taken steps since then to meet those requirements.

And what’s worse, another railway company – Canadian Pacific – who also operate some of our commuter trains have signed an agreement with their union to allow trains to run with one engineer. This does not augur well for us at CN. It has established a dangerous precedent.

We all suspect corruption in the union, but of course, we can’t prove it. I mean, what kind of union would agree to eliminate jobs? There was no discussion among the membership. No debate. And apparently, no recompense for those affected.

When Canadian National Railway tried this before, there was at least a plan in place on the part of the union. We vowed we’d all show up at work that morning and the trains would not move. At all. It was understood that management would do what they could to operate some trains, but in Truth, there aren’t enough managers to make much difference. Besides, like most supervisors, they haven’t a clue how to perform the job done daily by union members. My point, Ms J, is that there was some plan in place, some direction from union leaders. Support.

This time, it would appear we’re on our own. And again, I say it seems as though the union is deep in the company’s pocket. I could name the union, but I won’t. Suffice to say it’s an American union and we here in Canada are SICK TO DEATH of paying dues to a bunch of fat, greedy Yanks in Cleveland, Ohio. More than a hundred dollars a month per member. And what the Hell have they done for us lately?

Nothing.

Oh sure, they have their hand out to take our money every month. But where is the union now, Ms J? Where are they when we really need some leadership? Why are they so invisible while the company acts with arrogance and impunity? If I could, I’d happily pay my union dues to a charity. I think many of us would. But under current law, union dues are deducted at source and must be paid to the union where one exists. That’s the law, Ms J.

I know what you’re thinking, Ms Journal. Why don’t you guys form your own union? Why don’t you have a Canadian union?

How? How the hell does one do that? Form a union? A national union? Don’t you think a move like that would be met with objection, not only by the Yank-my-doodle-it’s-a-dandy union we have now, but also by the company? I’m certain there are laws in place to make it difficult, if not impossible. It’s a matter of power and wealth, Ms J. Wealthy people remain powerful by keeping poorer folks poor. And powerless. That’s obvious by the fact that we cannot refuse to pay our monthly dues. We are legally bound to continue to pay for a service we’re not getting.

So what will become of us then? What will happen to the forty men who’ll be left without a train to operate? God knows. And He’s not telling. Will we be laid off? Will we have no jobs at all?

I doubt that, Ms J. If we don’t have enough seniority to operate a commuter train, we are free to exercise our seniority and to displace a person from another position, most likely in freight service. But CN has gradually increased the length of their freight trains and streamlined their freight operations to the point where there are very few engineer positions there now.

So what then?

In a worst case scenario, I believe we may end up working in a freight yard somewhere, standing outside in the rain and snow, operating a remote-controlled locomotive to shunt freight cars and to build trains destined for domestic and international markets. Imagine how that might feel, Ms J.

We are locomotive engineers. Most of us have between 20 and 30 years with the company. We’ve been through seven weeks of intensive classroom and simulator training at North America’s finest training facility near Gimli, Manitoba. CN’s facility there was indeed second to none in North America. A number of American railroads paid big money to CN to have their employees trained there. It was well known and well respected and produced hundreds if not thousands of skillful engineers over the past thirty years.

One of the first things the Yanks did when they took over was close it.

“Too expensive,” they said.

And for a number of years now, no new enginemen have been trained. We’re getting older and starting to retire. What then? Well, it seems the fuckwits in charge hadn’t thought that far ahead.

So if they take forty men from commuter service, they’ll have a glut of engineers, won’t they? They’ll be saving money and conserving their workforce. My word, aren’t they a clever bunch?

CN hasn’t hired many new employees at all in the past dozen years or so. Cut-backs, you see. Saving money. Less employees means less operating costs. And that means more profits. Higher share prices. But who will run the trains, you ask? What will happen when employees get tired and want time off? What might happen if they opt to exercise their right to book rest under the provisions of their labour contract? What then?

The company will instill fear into them by disciplining them for doing something they’re allowed to do. I got ten demerits for booking rest, Ms J. Lots of guys got disciplined for booking rest. Is it right, Ms J? Is it just? Is it legal?

No. Of course not. But power does what power wants. The rules change to suit them.

And they tell the customer (in this case GO Transit) that the offending employees have been duly disciplined and their commuter trains will continue to run without disruption.

Yeah, but what if the damage is already done? What if GO Transit has had enough of the poor service CN has offered these past few years? What if GO Transit opts to give the operating contract to another railway when this contract expires in 2008?

“Oh well,” says CN. “Who cares? There’s more profit in freight trains anyway.”

I detest my employer. Seven more years until I can retire. That is, if they don’t decide to make us work until age sixty-five.

I’m not done with this yet, Ms J. I’ve more to say. But I’ve gone on long enough for today.

Stay tuned ...

***

I know, Ms J. I know!

It's been awhile, hasn't it? Well, I'm afraid it's going to be a while longer. Too much busy-ness these daze. Too much activity. Work and worry. Rehearsal and resistance. Dining and dashing. No time. Sleep-deprived. My soul aches to write to you, Ms Journal. I've some things to sort out and you're such a faithful listener.

But alas, I must away again. Life awaits.


No worries, Ms J. It's all good!

Ta!

***

Some Random Thoughts

Morning, Ms J.

I haven't much to report today. I can share a few brief thoughts with you though, and .. oh what the heck. I'll show you a couple of fun photos as well.

Ready?


- It's sunny and 13C. I should be at the church, finishing my painting job.

- Sunday was a bit of a blur. Big church service in the forenoon. Long rehearsal after lunch.

- I love my daughter more than I've ever loved anyone.


I love you, Scout.


To the moon and back!!!!

- Allan's estranged wife used to be my favourite GO girl. I'm trying not to, but I feel angry with her, and disappointed in the way she's treated Allan. I haven't spoken with her in weeks.

- Every cast has at least one weak link in it. This time, it's the young man who plays my son, Jud. I wish he'd learn his lines.


I know he'll get it right when it really matters. But still I worry.

- I wear a wig for more than half the play. It feels ridiculous, but they tell me it looks OK.


Scottie talks about his "delicate condition" with his ex-wife. "It's OK," he tells her. "I mean, I'm going to be around for awhile."

- I plan to attend a funeral tomorrow for a man who used to go to our church. Clarence. He was my Scout leader when I was a kid. Clarence suffered a stroke and died suddenly last week. He was the same age as Dad.

- My friend Carolyn is coming over on Wednesday to run lines with me. It's a great help to me.

- Neighbourhood squirrels are using my beautiful deck as a dinner plate. They're staining the wood with brown juice from the butternuts they eat there. I don't want to kill the little bastards, but I'm at my wit's end.

- I can't get used to the way I look without a moustache. And my shaven head is cold. I wear a hat indoors.


"POO!" (Meagan's artwork on my smooth dome)


And yes, dear Heather. Meagan shaved the tops of my ears.

- The trees have donned their autumn colours. I feel both happy and sad this time of year. The brilliant colours fill me with joy, yet I know they're a harbinger of death, and of winter's cold and snow. Brrrrr!


A flash of brilliance, then death.

- I wish I could get excited about Christmas. I used to enjoy it, Ms J, but lately, it's been stressful and disappointing. I hate shopping and wrapping gifts. I never know what to buy. Bah. Humbug!


Oops! Time to go back to work. TTFN!

***

The Best Kind of Fun, Ms J ...

... on either side of the border.

Well, we had a good day, Meagan and I. T'was a brilliant day, actually. We left home about 2:00 and drove to Niagara Falls, Ontario. There we planned to cross the Rainbow Bridge which spans the mighty Niagara River between Canada and the U.S. As we'd done on previous trips, we stopped first at a tourist information centre on this side of the border. We exchanged our Canadian money for some funny-looking American stuff and then asked directions to The Boulevard Mall in Amherst, New York.

"Are you sure you want to go over there today?" asked the woman behind the counter. "There's been a massive winter storm there and the electricity is out. The police are asking people to stay off the roads in Amherst. I phoned the mall a few hours ago and they were still closed and without power. The news reports say 300,000 people are still without electricity."

Meagan and I looked at each other and frowned. How could this be, we wondered. We were only 50 km from Amherst. The weather in Niagara Falls was sunny and 8C. The roads were bare and dry. Scout held up a fist full of Yankee dollars.

"But we wanted to go to Hot Topic. It's like, the coolest store ever. We already changed our money and everything."

The woman suggested we try shopping in Buffalo instead.

"Why don't you drive to Ft. Erie and cross the border there? It's not as bad there as it is in Amherst," she said.

"Do they have Hot Topic there?" asked Meagan, waving her money hopefully.

The lady smiled. Her eyes were big and brown and gorgeous.

"They sure do. It's at The Walden Galleria. That's a shopping mall like The Boulevard Mall, only bigger."

She gave us a sheet of paper with directions and off we went. Meagan was relieved. So was I, Ms J. In half an hour or so, we were in the mall.

We found Hot Topic and this time, Meagan got something worthwhile. She bought a pair of tight, black, pin striped pants with narrow legs, and two t-shirts -- one for her and one for her brother.

"He hardly ever gets anything, Dad. And last weekend, you got Maxine a bra and David a play centre, but Dan got nothing. Let's get a shirt for him. He'd love this one."

She held up a black shirt with a demon on it and the word "Skinless".

"It's a metal band, Dad. They're called Skinless. Dan loves their music."

We shopped next at a place called JC Penny's. It's a department store, Ms J, like Zeller's or The Bay. Or Wal-Mart I guess. They had some lovely shirts there for $35.

"Buy one at the regular price, get the second for 88 cents."

I shook my head in amazement. What a deal! But I knew we weren't allowed to buy much in the states due to the brief time we'd spent there, so I bought a pair of red silk boxer shorts for Scottie to wear on stage (his pants fall down a couple of times, Ms Journal) and after visiting the restroom to put them on under my pants, we left to have dinner and come home. Meagan wore her new pants under her old blue jeans.

The man at Canada Customs grilled us at first.

"Citizenship?"

"Canadian," we said.

"Where do you live?"

"We both live in Toronto, sir."

"How long were you in the states?"

"Just a few hours."

"Anything to declare?"

"Well, my daughter bought a couple of t-shirts ..."

"Open the trunk, please."

He peered into the trunk and shone a flashlight into the back seat and into Meagan's face. Then he asked for some identification.

"What do you do for a living?" he asked as we searched our wallets for birth certificates.

"I work for CN in Toronto, sir. I'm a locomotive engineer."

Well, that changed everything, Ms J. Turns out the guy was a railroad buff. He loved trains. He stood and chatted with us for fifteen minutes while traffic waited behind us. What a nice man!

"Holy cow," he said at last. "I'd better let you guys go. Safe trip home, eh."

We both smiled with relief for a while after we got back on Canadian soil. Meagan's contraband went undetected.

---

At home tonight, I asked Meagan if she'd cut my hair.

"I need it REALLY short this time, Scout. It's for the play."

"Can I shave you bald, Dad?" she asked. She always asks that question, Ms J. And I always tell her no. But not this time. This time, I surprised her.

"Yeah. Shave me right bald, girl. Use my razor and take ALL the hair off. Scottie needs to be bald under his wig."


So I went from this ...


... to this.


And finally, to this.

"Oh my gosh, Dad!" said Meagan. "Without your moustache and with no hair at all, you look like a different person entirely. And I hope you grow your moustache back after the play. Your mouth looks exactly like Grandad's!"


She's right, you know. And that's not such a bad thing, is it?

***

Happy Friday (the 13th)

Only 5:20 left of this unlucky day, and so far, it's been just fine, thank you very much.

Hi, Ms Journal. Allan's in the shower getting ready to go off to his mum's house for the weekend, and I'm just popping by here to say hello before I head off to Norval to get my girl. She's planning to spend some time here with dear ol' dad this weekend. It pleases me that she asked to see me.

I'll give my Saturday to her without reservation or condition, but sadly, I have a very busy day planned for Sunday. Our student intern minister will be officially welcomed with a covenanting service, and since I'm on the Intern Supervisory Committee, I'll have a part to play in the service. It happens that I'm opening the church as well as serving coffee and tea afterwards. Then I have to race up to Caledon for a four hour rehearsal.

But Meagan has learned that when daddy's doing a play, he's really busy and not always available. She's understanding and forgiving, Ms J, but alas, it doesn't do much to assuage my guilt.

I promised her we'd do something special on Saturday. Maybe we'll cross the border at Niagara Falls and visit that shopping mall in Amherst, NY. There's a shop there she likes - "Hot Topic" - and she loves to have mashed potatoes for dinner at a restaurant called "T.G.I.Friday's".

Neither of us have passports so I hope the American authorities won't demand to see them.

I'll get Scout to take a picture of me sans moustache. She'll be surprised to see me. She hasn't yet seen the new, smooth-faced dad.

So long, Ms J!

***

Hair Lip to Bare Lip

Tuesday was photo night at the theatre in Caledon. There was a professional photographer there to take cast photos. That part was no problem, Ms J. Photos of the cast and crew are always taken and displayed with accompanying bios for theatre patrons.

But “Tribute” requires more pictures. There’s actually a slide show that’s presented as part of the play. My character, Scottie, has a son who’s a camera buff. Jud takes numerous pictures of his ailing father in various stages of treatment and the audience is shown about eight or ten of them. So there were shots of Dale and also of “Scottie”. Numerous shots of Scottie.

Scottie in street clothes listening to doctors discussing his treatment plan.

Scottie getting his pulse taken by a pretty nurse.

Scottie in a hospital gown (and nothing else!) sitting with the pretty nurse on his lap.

Scottie sleeping.

Scottie looking weak and disheveled and short-tempered.

Scottie walking away, his gown open at the back and a hat covering his bare arse.

Scottie walking away, his gown open at the back and his bare arse displayed.

It was all great fun, Ms J. Anything for a laugh!

But according to the script, Scottie Templeton is a man who’s fifty but looks ten years younger. Clearly, Dale the actor needed to look younger.

Scottie has a full head of hair. Dale is bald. So the club paid for a toupee. Eighty bucks. It doesn’t look too bad, actually. Scottie is clean-shaven. Dale has a moustache. So Dale offered to remove his moustache.

And that’s the lead story in today’s post, Ms J.

Dale’s moustache. Or rather lack of a moustache, for he shaved it off at the theatre. Clean off. No trace of hair on this top lip. Boy, do I ever look different! I barely recognise the man I see in the mirror.

It’s been quite a while since I’ve bared my upper lip to the world. Thirty years, Ms Journal. Honestly! I first grew a moustache in Germany. It was the summer of 1976 and I had just turned eighteen. I decided it made me look older, more distinguished. And it became a part of me. I’ve been shaving around it every morning for thirty years.

In Act 2 of the play, Scottie begins chemotherapy and the wig will be removed to reveal a shaven head. Scottie wears various hats to conceal his smooth pate, but the audience will know he has no hair. In the final scene, he addresses the audience bare-headed and makes a tearful apology to his son. The boy joins his father on stage in a heart-rending reconciliation and, if we do it right, Ms J, there won’t be a dry eye in the house.

When the play finally closes in mid November, I’ll not likely ever wear a wig again.

My moustache, however, will be left to return to it’s former glory. Vive Yosemite Sam! (But with a bit more grey)


"The best moustache north, south, east aaaaaand west of the Pecos!"

***

Connections

There is something in the world that is larger than me. And I am connected to it.

A friend was here today. Carolyn. She attends my church. Carolyn's really nice. And she reads this blog. (Hi Carolyn!) We had some lunch together (Turkey sandwiches, Ms J. What else?) and then she sat with me and read the whole play. It was very helpful, very helpful indeed. She offered a bit of insight into Scottie's character and laughed at my silly jokes. It was a really enjoyable couple of hours. It was raining so I dropped her off at home and as I drove back to my place, I considered again the value of friends. And I thanked God for bringing this delightfully uplifting person into my Life. Connections.

I went to the church yesterday to do a few odd jobs. When I was done, I popped in to visit Deb, our student minister. Although I hadn't planned on it, I found myself talking openly with her about my concerns about Nick.

"He's very angry," I told her. "He admits he shouldn't be driving. I'm afraid he'll suffer a bout of rage while behind the wheel and hurt himself. Or someone else. Someone innocent. He needs a friend so badly, Deb, but I just don't know what to do anymore."

She listened compassionately and her brown eyes never left mine.

"Sometimes," she said, "there is nothing more to do but give it to God. If you try to hold onto your drowning friend, he may pull you down too."

She handed me a tissue to wipe my eyes.

"He may have to sink to the bottom before he'll consider getting help, real help, the professional kind. Maybe by trying to help him, you're only delaying this process."

I discovered a kinship with this woman who only came to our church a month ago. And I left there with a much lighter heart. Connections.

Tonight found me at church again. There was a meeting there called a "Listening Circle." The United Church of Canada officially sanctions gay and lesbian marriage. However the church leaves the final decision on the matter to individual congregations. Each church must choose whether or not their minister will perform such ceremonies. The Listening Circle was very effective and for me, quite moving.

I joined twenty other people seated in chairs in a circle. There was a smooth stone about the size of a fist and we each took turns holding it. Only the person who held the stone was allowed to speak. That person was encouraged to speak his heart on the issue of gay marriage at our church. The others were asked to listen without judgement, to be open-minded and to consider the possibility that their own viewpoint might be wrong.

It was a beautiful thing to behold.

Each person voiced his or her thoughts, using personal pronouns and refraining from lecture or debate. All the others were silent. As we went round, each person passing the stone to the next, we heard some differing ideas. All were heard. All were valued. What a powerful feeling it was to hold the stone and to be aware that twenty people were waiting silently and patiently while I formulated my thoughts!

The meeting lasted about an hour, I guess and we closed by joining hands and reciting the Lord's Prayer together. I could actually feel the energy being passed from one hand to the next. It was a powerful feeling, Ms J, and my tears fell silently to the carpet. Twenty-one connections.

A few minutes ago, Allan came to me.

"Dale, I just want you to know how much I appreciate you letting me stay here. Thanks for staying up late last night and listening to me. I know you must have been tired this morning. I'm going to be alright, aren't I? It's not that bad, is it?"

And he smiled, Ms J. Allan smiled a broad, genuine smile. It was the first I'd seen in the past two weeks. And I smiled back.

There is something in the world that is larger than me, Ms J.

And I am connected to it.

***

Sweet Solitude

I'm alone again, Ms J. Oh man, does it feel good.

It's nice to have company here, it really is. And I do love my son, Ms Journal. Make no mistake about that. We don't communicate at a very deep level, but still, I love my boy. Maxine gave him someone (two someones, actually) to love and so I care for her too, in a distant sort of way. And David, Baby David. Well, he's too darn cute not to like, Ms J. I mean, honestly. Look at him.

But they've all gone back to Kelly and Tim and the asylum they call a home. And I feel a certain relief to have my home back again.

No extra dishes to wash.

No worries about what Maxine might like to eat.

No fussing infant whose parents argue about who's turn it is to tend to his needs.

Meagan is coming for a visit next weekend. She'd like to bring a friend, Sarah.

Allan has spent the weekend with his mum and stepdad. I'm expecting him here shortly.

But for now, I'm having a glass of Aussie Cabernet and thoroughly enjoying my time alone. Today, I'm thankful for an hour or two alone.

Does that make me selfish?

***

Downtown

"Thanks for a wonderful day, Dad."

Those were Dan's words as I went up the stairs to bed last night. It had been a good day, relatively stress-free. Maxine experienced the subway for the first time, and The Eaton Centre, Toronto's largest and poshest downtown shopping mall. She was impressed with it all, I think. We got some clothes for the baby and some new toys. Maxine got a bra. David spent the day in his stroller, alternately smiling and sleeping. What a good boy! Maxine was happy. Dan was proud. I was proud too, Ms J.


At the entrance to the subway system. It takes about 30 minutes to get downtown.

On the subway, and again in the restaurant where we had lunch, strangers noticed David, smiled at him and acknowledged his adorability. Hmmm. That may not actually be a word, but as I said, this is my blog. I can say whatever I want.

Anyway, people fussed over little smiling David and I felt my heart swell.

"He's my grandson," I said.


We all enjoyed lunch together. I especially enjoyed the attention David got from lots of pretty women. He's quite the little charmer. Chip off the ol' block, I say.

We exited the subway at the intersection of Yonge and Bloor, the absolute heart of Toronto's downtown core. There were street musicians and buskers performing for tips from passers by. Dan gave a dollar to a man who stood stock still like a living manikin. When he heard the coin drop into the little pail, the man bowed grandly and then resumed his motionless pose.

"Give him another dollar," laughed Maxine and so we did and the man bowed again and returned to his pose.

"Hey Dan," I called, loudly enough for the man to hear, "Let's give him a hundred bucks and see what he does."

The man turned on his perch and offered us an amused grin. And we all laughed!

We strolled in the sunshine along Yonge St, which is the world's longest street (It's in the Guinness Book of Records, Ms J) and marveled at the sights. So much to see! So much movement, and excitement. Traffic and crowds. All manner of retail stores. Everything from cramped looking Christian book stores to opulent bars advertising "Live Fully Nude Women" and "Private Rooms".


Yonge St. provides a sort of sensory overload. Much, much busier than the tiny hamlet where Dan and Maxine live.


It was all new and foreign to Maxine and she stuck close to Dan.

It was a long walk southward to the Eaton Centre. We were glad when we reached our destination. We did some exploring in the mall first.


Ubiquitous escalators proved challenging for Maxine. The Boy and I were frustrated but we bore it well. On a number of occasions, Dan had to return to retrieve a stranded Maxine.

When we came to Sears, (Yeah, Ms J. I know) I remembered the gift voucher I'd gotten back in August when I'd complained about Sears' shoddy service. One hundred dollars. So that's where we shopped.


It takes a LONG time to get fitted for a bra, apparently. Dan and I were bored and while we waited for Maxine, I took a trip down mammary lane.

We walked around that big mall until we were tired out. David slept most of the time, lucky little sod, and soon it was time to come home. We rode the subway back to Royal York where we'd left the car and in less than ten minutes, we were home again.


David seemed to enjoy his new play centre, but he only spent two minutes on it before he puked all over it.


He was a tired little man and after he'd had a bite of supper, ...


... he had a bath in Grandad's big tub. That boy sure likes to splash!

I do enjoy my grandson, Ms J, but gosh it was good when he finally went to bed. I sent the kids to the store to rent a video.

"We'll be back soon, Dad," said Dan. "If David wakes up, just rub his tummy. He'll go right back to sleep. See you in a while."

They hadn't been gone sixty seconds before David began wailing. When they returned, they found us both asleep in the rocking chair.

---

The turkey's in the oven and David wants to go for a walk. Happy Thanksgiving, Ms J.

I'm thankful today for a drug-free son and a healthy grandson.

***

Thank you!

There's nothing like confrontation to increase hits to a blog, eh Ms J? Thank goodness for those who feel comfortable leaving their caustic criticisms here to provoke others to respond in kind and then flee to hide behind anonymity. It really brings the ol' hit counter to Life, doesn't it?

I'd written a simple post yesterday about a challenge I'd experienced in rehearsal for the play I'm doing currently. I thought I'd share it. It wasn't quite worthy of a Pulitzer, but I thought it might be amusing. And look! Over a hundred hits in one day. Excellent!

I could restrict comments to registered Bloggers. I could enable "comment moderation." Or I could simply disable comments entirely. But I won't.

I have nothing further to add, Ms J, except to say I will continue to delete comments I deem inflammatory or disrespectful. Hell, it's my blog. I'll delete any damn thing I want, repeatedly if necessary. Sometimes though, it might pay to leave them. A hundred and one hits. That's quite a train wreck!

---

I'm off now to collect my son and his family. We plan to venture into the city today to see some sights and perhaps do some shopping. It's a beautiful morning, Ms J. I hope the weather holds. I'll take my camera and capture some memories for you.

Hasta luego, amiga!

***

My Tang Gets Tongled

"No. Listen - it's OK. I'll wait for the cookies!"

That's a line from the play, Ms J. Scottie's line. My line. One of the hundreds I speak during the play.

"No. Listen - it's OK. I'll wait for the cookies!"

Simple enough, yeah? Nine words. Nine little words which form a miniscule part of the thousands I speak on stage as Scottie Templeton. But oh how I struggle to get them out! Properly.

"No wait! I'll listen for the cookies!"

"Oh god! No! I'll wait for the peanuts!" (Peanuts? Where the hell did that come from?)

"No! It's OK! Listen! There's cookies!"

"Listen! Ummmm ... shit. Something about cookies, right?"

What's the big deal, you ask? Why do these nine words challenge me so? Well, let me tell you, Ms J.

It happens that as I speak this line, a woman is standing beside me, disrobing. She's really quite attractive and while she doesn't show her naughty bits, she does present herself to me in a teddy and a push-up bra. Veddy nice, Ms J. Veddy, veddy nice.

So her skirt goes down and her top comes off and there's all this smooth skin there beside me and I have to say these nine words and I know the next thing that's going to happen is that she'll sit in my lap and my face will be an inch from that hilly chest and ...

She smells nice, Ms J.

And my tongue gets wrapped around my eye teeth and I can't see what I'm saying.

It's hard, Ms Journal. And difficult. Hard and difficult.

Sheesh!

***

Not Much ...

... to talk about today, Ms J. Allan's still here, still stunned, but recovering a little more each day. He's removed all his belongings from their matrimonial home and brought it all here. Suddenly, my little house is even smaller. But he's doing the best he can under very trying circumstances and I'm not complaining.

I spoke with Dan today. He and Maxine and Baby David are coming here to spend the weekend. Monday is Thanksgiving and I plan to cook a turkey and make a nice meal for us. Dan wants to take his girl downtown and show her the sights in the big city. I'll be the chauffeur and tour guide.

"Yeah, Dad. That'd be great. I don't have any money though. I used up my cheque at Wal-Mart, eh? David needed diapers and I got him a little shirt and some pants and socks. Ummm ... I was wondering if we might go to a toy store and get something for him. He doesn't have hardly any toys. And he still needs more clothes, Dad. He's pretty much grown out of everything he has."

Chauffeur, tour guide and financial support.

"Yeah, we'll see what we can do, son," I told him.

And then another thought came to mind.

"Listen, Dan," I began. "Do you think Maxine will pee the bed here? She peed on my new air mattress at Uncle Pat's land. Remember? If she pees on the bed here at home, it'll ruin the mattress. And I do have a friend living here for a while."

"No worries, Dad. I'll bring a diaper for her. It's OK. I've got it all covered."

So that's OK then, Ms J. Dan's got it all covered. I think I'll put a plastic sheet on the mattress anyway. You know. Just in case.

I'm picking them up on Saturday morning.

***

Thoughts on a Sunny Tuesday

Hello Ms J. Sorry I haven't been writing regularly lately, but to tell the Truth, I haven't had time and I haven't felt much like writing. Reminds me of the old joke about the tower Big Ben propositioning the Tower of Pisa.

"I've got the time," he told her, "if you've got the inclination."

OK. I won't tell you that one again.

Rehearsals for the play are going well. We're blessed this time with a really talented cast. There are seven of us in total - four women and three men. My character is rarely off stage and rarely quiet. His name's Scottie Templeton and he's absolutely delightful to play. The play is called "Tribute" and despite the fact that I have long pages of dialogue to memorise, I'm really enjoying this project, and have from the beginning. It's a fabulous story.

Here's a blurb from our theatre website:

“Tribute” is the story of Scottie Templeton, a charming and entertaining man; a loveable rascal whose life is continuous hilarity until tragedy strikes. Scottie learns that he is dying and his one quest becomes to reconcile with his alienated son. Many may remember the film with Jack Lemmon as Scottie and Robby Benson as his sensitive and tormented son.

It is a wonderful blend of comedy and pathos full of poignant and hilarious moments as well as thought provoking entertainment. The ending is funny, surprising and touching.

I'm filled again with emotion even as I read it just now, Ms J. It's SUCH a good story. Quite honestly, my ego loves it because I'm the star and the entire play is about me. Another part of me feels a bit guilty for taking so much of the limelight. But that's a small part of me. Small, Ms J.

An added bonus is that there's quite a lot of kissing in this play, and it always involves me. Scottie has this little trick he plays where he invites women to kiss his cheek and then turns his head at the last minute to kiss them full on the lips.

One of the women I kiss this way is Sally. She's a young model and very pretty. Sally is about twenty, I guess, but the actress who plays her is ... er, sixteen.

Ahem. Yes.

I also kiss an old friend that way. Her name is Hillary and she's a retired call-girl. Lovely body, actually. And she strips for me in one memorable scene. She's wearing a disguise to surprise me and I recognise her finally by her pert (and barely covered) breasts.

"Hillary! That's Hillary!"

And she sits on my lap and pushes my face into her cleavage. Oh yes, Ms J. I've been enjoying rehearsals immensely.

Scottie kisses his ex-wife more passionately. They're divorced but still good friends. Scottie still loves her. In a heart-rending scene in Act 1, Scottie tearfully confesses his fear of dying and after some passionate kisses on the couch, they end up in bed together. The actress's name is Laura. Laura's real-life husband is Doug. Doug is a provincial court judge. Doug plays my best friend in "Tribute." Doug watches me closely. Justice, it seems, is not blind.

The final scene in the play involves another kiss. Scottie invites a kiss on the cheek as always, then turns his head to kiss the lips. It's only a peck on the lips, Ms Journal, but it'll be the most difficult to actually do. Every show. For ten shows.

The actor I kiss is named Derek. Derek is seventeen years old and plays my twenty-year-old son, Jud. I know it'll be a really hard scene for him, but we have to do it. And we will.

And what about me, Ms J? Will I find it difficult to kiss this boy on the lips? Yes, I will. But if I remember that I'm Scottie Templeton and I've finally succeeded in building a healthy father/son relationship with Jud, I'll be filled with real emotion and ... Well, it'll be easier.

Gosh, I love the theatre! I love how it challenges me.

***

Allan's Back

My lodger's back, Ms J. He spent the weekend with his family, but he's been staying with me during the week because it's much closer to work. He's still shattered by the sudden demise of his marriage, still sad and confused. His wife called here tonight and they spoke for nearly an hour.

"Who was that?" I asked as he clomped down the stairs. "Was it ... her?"

"Yup," he said and plopped down into an arm chair in the livingroom. "You know, I just don't understand women. I don't understand them at all."

"Why?" I called from the kitchen. "What did she say?"

"She said she'd made up her mind. The marriage is over."

I finished carving the last bit of red skin from a potato, dropped the spud into a pot on the stove and took my paring knife into the livingroom. I found my friend staring straight ahead with empty eyes.

"I'm sorry, Allan," I said softly. "I'm really sorry."

"I wonder what I'll do now," he said, his voice flat and emotionless. "What will I do? Where will I go? Who the hell am I now?"

I told him he could stay here for a month or two until he gains some clarity of thought. I know what he'll do, Ms J. He'll spend every waking minute analysing the last few months of his marriage. I know where he'll go. He'll go half crazy trying to make sense of it. But like Allan, I don't know who he is because right now, he's only half of what he once was. He's no longer part of a couple, but only one heart, one soul instead of two.

"I guess I'm alone now, aren't I?" he said to the log in the fireplace.

"No Allan," I told him gently. "You're not alone. You're all one. And you'll learn to live that way. Who knows? Maybe you'll learn to like it. I did."

He turned his sad face toward me and said, "Yeah. Maybe."

But he didn't sound convinced.

***