People of Colour

I'm a racist, Ms J. I never knew it until yesterday when I was involved, apparently, in a racist incident. It happened at Mimico station, on the platform. Here's what happened:

I was walking along the platform with my conductor, awaiting the arrival of the train I was to operate for the afternoon when I noticed a young woman reading a book. I stopped and we chatted for a bit and I noticed she had a luminous smile with straight, white teeth.

"She sure was pretty, wasn't she?" I said to my mate as we headed for the far end of the platform. "I'm a sucker for straight, white teeth."

We approached an older woman next. I smiled at her and she smiled back. It was a glorious day, Ms J. I was in a fabulous mood.

"Lovely smile," I remarked then turned to my conductor again. "Did you notice the teeth? Nice and white."

Near the end of the platform, was a man. I smiled at him too and he returned a self-conscious grin.

"See that?" I said. "Gorgeous teeth. Straight and white."

We reached the end of the platform then and soon the train arrived. We relieved the incoming crew and proceeded downtown to Union Station where the conductor climbed down from the engine and went to fetch us some coffee. I busied myself with some paper work and suddenly, there was a stranger on the engine with me. It was the same man whose teeth I'd admired at Mimico.

He stuck his hand out and introduced himself. I told him my name and then he began.

"I was really offended by that comment you made at Mimico," he said. "It sounded quite racist. You'd better watch how you talk to people of colour."

I had no idea what this man was talking about, Ms J, but I let him continue. And I noticed for the first time that he was black.

"You can't do that, you know. You can't just walk up to a person of colour and make a comment about white teeth. Luckily, I'm a man of honour and I thought it best to speak to you directly rather than report the incident to your supervisor."

I wasn't sure whether the guy was doing me a favour, or whether he was giving me grief. It felt like the latter so I responded defensively.

"I never intended to make a racist remark, sir," I said. "If you heard it that way, that's your business and nothing to do with me."

"Yeah, well lucky for you I'm a man. I could report this but instead I thought I'd speak to you manno a manno. You've got to watch what you say to people of colour."

People of colour. That was the third time he used that expression. What the hell, Ms J? The guy was black. That's not a colour. Black is not a colour. Red is a colour. Orange and blue and green are colours. Black is a shade. And this guy was black. Quite honestly, I hadn't noticed until he made an issue of it. I wondered why he was so sensitive about his skin pigmentation. Was he ashamed of it? Self-conscious? What's the big deal about dark skin? Do I make an issue of my light skin? Am I a person of non-colour?

"Anyway, I'm going to let this go," he was saying. "You can consider it squashed. But honestly, you have to watch what you say around people of colour."

"OK," I said. "I will."

He left the cab of the locomotive and proceeded down the stairs to his non-coloured collar job and I was left feeling angry and confused.

I really don't think I did anything wrong. I was only commenting on his straight, white teeth. It was he who perverted it into something racist. And I believe he interpreted it that way because he was looking for racism. If you look for something, expect something, you'll probably find it. And he did. Trouble is, he could have reported it and caused me innumerable heartaches at work.

The incident completely ruined my bonny afternoon.

What have I learned from this, Ms J?
Never to talk to 'people of colour'?
That black people are very sensitive?
That I'm a racist bastard who'd better smarten up?

I guess I'd better be more cautious and more sensitive in the future, especially around people of colour.

***

Unexpected Pleasures

Unexpected pleasures are really the best kind, aren't they? Remember when I first bought a bird feeder last fall? I was frustrated that there were no colourful birds who came to feed - just boring old sparrows. And pigeons. A blog mate suggested patience and perseverance. "Keep feeding them, Dale," she wrote. "Eventually you'll have lots of pretty birds." So I did and she was right. I'm rewarded now with the unexpected pleasure of brilliant cardinals and blue jays and finches, both gold and purple. There's even a little woodpecker who visits sometimes. Thank you, Stacy!

It happened again the other day at work. I was faced with spending a long, boring afternoon with someone I didn't know very well. I was tired and hungry and not looking forward to working at all. The first few miles were uncomfortable, but conversation began at last and after a while, we began to talk about ... Well, we began to discuss a certain employee. We talked about how we'd both tried to help him and we agreed the man has grave emotional issues.

"Ultimately though, he'll have to get sober."

I was struck by the power of his simple Truth, and for a moment the words hung there in the space between us in the locomotive. I glanced over at the man across the cab. He was sitting with his legs crossed, calmly peeling an orange.

"And in order to do that," he continued, "he'll have to admit he has a problem."

"But he's a stubborn man," I said. "He can't bring himself to ask for help."

We talked for a while about this man and then we began, tentatively at first, to discuss our own demons.

"I've been sober twelve years," he said. "And you?"

I told him I'd never had a problem with alcohol. It was drugs.

"How long you been clean?"

"Since May 2000."

"Good for you! How did you quit? Did you enter a twelve step programme?"

The conversation flowed, Ms J, and the miles slid smoothly beneath us. We discussed "bottoming out" and we shared moments of "spiritual awakening." It's been a long time since I had a conversation so intimate and honest, especially with another man. After I'd parked the train at the end of our shift, he came to me and offered his hand.

"Thank you so much for sharing that with me, Dale. I'd always believed I was alone in my struggles here among the guys at work. It's not something you can discuss with just anyone."

I squeezed his hand with both of mine.

"You're welcome," I said. "It's been a pleasure."

An unexpected one, Ms J.

And they're really the best kind, aren't they?

***

Hello, Ms Journal

How're you doing today? I'm fine, thank you. Lovely day. Sunny and 19C. Perfect, really.

So what have I been up to lately? Well, I took Saturday off work to visit Dad. I thought I might help him plant the vegetable garden. I had breakfast on the way at my brother's house, then carried on to Mount Forest. There, I found my sisters, Jill and June, with their kids. Each of my sisters has two: a boy and a girl. Together, they're four children aged 8, 7, 6 and 4. It gets noisy at times, Ms J. Overwhelmingly so. I took the four young ones to the park and then down to the river where we got quite filthy and muddy, but had a brilliant time catching frogs. I'm sure the twins ... (they're twins, Ms J. I have twin sisters. Identical, actually) I'm sure the twins enjoyed a couple of quiet hours with Mum and Dad.

Dad had already planted his garden but he did ask for some help with a small spruce tree. A Nova Scotia Blue Spruce. The tree was too close to the house and, quite honestly, ugly. Misshapen. Dad loves trees, Ms J, but this one had to go. June and I worked together to remove the prickly branches and then I used a chainsaw to cut the trunk off even with the ground. Dad was pleased.

"T'weren't much," I told him later. "It wasn't a very big tree."

"Ida bin all day with it," Dad said and hugged us both.

I love my dad, Ms J. Have I mentioned that before?

IMG_4811
Originally uploaded by The Mimico Muser

I left after dinner and came home. I had to go to work on Sunday.

I've got a few more pics to show you, Ms J, of trains I've worked on and places I've been. But I'm struggling at the moment to remember how to post the damn things!

Pfff ...

I'll get it sorted, eventually.

Meanwhile, I'd better get outside and do some garden work before the phone rings to send me off to God knows where. I wouldn't be surprised if ...

Oops. There's the phone, Ms J. Yup. I'm going to work on a GO train.

Ta!

***

I Just Can't Let It Go

The lads were talking at work this morning about our supervisor. I'll call him ... Um, I'll call him ...

...

I can't even think of what to call him, Ms J. Every time I try to come up with a pseudonym, an obscenity pops out. I absolutely abhor this person. In Truth, there's no one (with the possible exception of Jesus and perhaps his own mother) who likes the guy. He's evil, this man. He is the devil incarnate. He's the man who cut thirty-four jobs, bringing fear and chaos to a contented workforce. He's the man who has meted out more discipline to more men and for less reason than any supervisor before him. He's the man who fired me unjustly last winter. And he appears proud of his accomplishments.

He's just doing his job, he'd say. Just following orders. Perhaps. But that's what the Nazi's claimed ... after they were caught.

This man ordered me suspended after I'd been involved in a red light incident. He ordered his underlings to attend my home, MY PRIVATE HOME, Ms J!, to fetch me like a common criminal and bring me back to work to submit to drug and alcohol testing. He held us for hours, separately and against our will, and refused to allow us to talk to each other until tests were completed and preliminary statements were taken. Later, they took more statements from us, individually. I was completely honest, believing that I had nothing to fear. I'd done nothing wrong, Ms J. I was a thousand feet away from the operating end of that train when the incident occurred. There was nothing I could have done to prevent it.

After a month of suspension, he phoned me.

"Can you come in to my office at 3:00 this afternoon, Dale? Your discipline has been decided."

I ate my lunch, then went straight to the church. I explained the situation to the preacher and asked if she'd pray for me. She held my trembling hands and we prayed together for peace, and for comfort, no matter how things turned out. I was calm as I drove to work that afternoon.

Angry Bob was the first to greet me as I entered the building.

"Hi ya Buddy! How's it going?"

"Not too well right now, Bobby," I told him. "I'm going into #%*&#'s office to get my discipline."

Bob's smile faded.

"Want me to go with you?"

I nodded and he put his arm around my shoulders. A few of the guys who were standing around came over to slap my back.

“You’ve had a real run of bad luck, eh Doc? Well, don’t worry. You’ll be alright.”

I smiled and thanked them and looked up at the clock on the wall. 3:00.

“Time to go, Bobby. You ready?”

“Yup. Let’s do it,” he said, and we headed down the hall to the office.

We found Mr. ***%# behind his desk and he looked up and smiled as he saw us. Smiled, Ms J.

“Is it OK if I sit in?” said Bob.

“Yes, of course,” we were told. “Here. Have a seat.”

Bob and I sat at a small round table and waited while the boss retrieved a page from his desk. I was aware of my breathing and heart rate. Both were normal. Slow and steady. I was glad I'd stopped at the church first.

“We’ve decided on dismissal, Dale,” he was saying as he placed the sheet of paper on our little table. “We feel you’ve tried to cover up things in the investigation. You’re being dismissed," and he pointed to the word on the page, “for the following reasons:”

He read the short paragraph and as he read it, I looked across the table at Bob. He was stunned but remained silent. The supervisor stood beside my chair and when he was finished speaking, I looked up into his eyes. Our eyes met and for a long moment, I stared at him. I saw not the slightest trace of remorse or humanity in his grey eyes. Nothing. It was as though he was dead in spirit.

“I’ll pray for you,” I thought, but said nothing.

He pointed then to the bottom of the page.

“I’d like you to sign here,” he said, “to prove that you’ve gotten this information.”

I shook my head solemnly and declined to sign anything. He used a ruler then to tear off the bottom portion. Bob grabbed the top half.

"Dismissal?" said Bob. "Don't you think that's a bit harsh?"

The supervisor was crossing the room to stand behind his oak desk.

"This is not the place for an appeal, Bob," he said.

“Let’s go, Bobby,” I said and stood and walked out the door. I didn’t look back.

Outside in the late afternoon sunshine, Bob stopped and looked at me.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

I bit my lip and nodded. But I really wasn't OK. I was numb. I had never dreamt I'd be fired.

"If you need anything ..." Bob was saying and his eyes filled with tears. "Fuck," he said. "If you need to talk or whatever ..."

My eyes were watering too and I headed for the car. I just wanted to be home.

"Yeah, I'm OK Bob," I said. "I'm just feeling ... I'm just feeling a lot of stuff right now. Thanks. But I want to go home."

---

That was a long time ago, Ms J. That was back in December of last year. I thought I might be able to put it behind me, but I cannot. I want to forgive that man for what he did to me and to my family, but I cannot.

I don't reckon I'll ever get over it. I'll never forget being called a liar and then dismissed. And despite my Christian beliefs, I may never forgive.

***

Reflections on a Near Miss

I witnessed an horrific traffic accident yesterday.

Well, that's a bit of an overstatement, really. What I witnessed was a near miss. It was almost an accident. Here's what happened, Ms J.

I was on my way to work yesterday afternoon, moving slowly in heavy traffic, when a white van zipped past me. It was moving very fast - 80 kph, perhaps - and rapidly closing the gap between it and the vehicle stopped ahead in the lane beside me. At the last possible instant, the driver of the van braked and jerked the wheel hard to the right missing the car by what must surely have been only inches. Thankfully, no other car occupied the space into which he swerved.

So what, you say? Nobody was hurt. No damage done. There was no accident. It was a non-event.

I must tell you, Ms J, I was greatly affected by that "non-event." My heart was racing and my breath caught in my throat. It was so close, Ms J! Disaster was so close I could feel it. I imagined the car being pushed into the concrete guard rail, spinning and grinding, dust and dirt flying, the occupants screaming with what may have been their last breath. Glass and body mouldings littering the highway. And blood. It all happened so quickly, but my feelings remain even now.

Eventually, the traffic movement allowed me a peek into the little car that was so very nearly destroyed. A woman was driving. A young woman, in her thirty's I suppose. She was smiling. The passenger next to her was also female. Older. Quite old, actually, and sleeping. The back seat held two more women - elderly women, who were engaged in conversation. They appeared to be completely at ease and it occurred to me then that they had no idea how close they had come to serious injury or death.

I felt my eyes fill at the thought of those innocent people and my lip began to quiver. The injustice of it, Ms Journal! As a result of one moment of inattention on the part of a speeding driver, those precious beings would be forever scarred, forever affected. And what of their loved ones? Their friends?

So much pain, Ms J, caused to so many by one ill-considered act. How might the driver of the van have felt, knowing his carelessness had brought about such tragedy? How could he live out the rest of his Life with such a burden to bear? Could he ever smile again? Ever find comfort?

These were my thoughts, Ms J, as I continued on to work. Those thoughts have returned many times in various forms and scenarios.

I'm wondering now how many of us are spared from horrific events and never know it.

And you know, Ms Journal, perhaps that's best.

***

A Busy Day Ahead

I've a busy day planned today. No time for Dale today, Ms J. Meagan has a dentist appointment at 11:00 and after I drive her back to Georgetown, I've got to race back to Etobicoke to collect Jenn and her kids and get them registered in a new school. That appointment is set for 1:45. Then I have to deliver them all home and still be able to get to work by 5:00.

I've booked rest until 3:00 this afternoon and it's guaranteed the crew office will call as soon as my rest is up. They give us two hours notice, so it'll be a call at 3:00 for a job that starts at 5:00. I really don't know where I'll have to go to report for duty. I'll find out when they call me.

And of course, it'll be in rush hour traffic.

***

My Government: On Guard For Me

Hey Ms J. How's it going? Me? I'm alright. Back to work after a few days of play. Work is the same. Boring sometimes. Often frustrating. Usually stressful. Managers. Trains. Ringing the bell and blowing the whistle. You know how it is. Same shit, only a little softer.

---

It's a long weekend in Canada. Victoria Day. We're celebrating the birthday of England's Queen Victoria. I'm not sure why, really. It's just always been that way. There's no one alive now who remembers dear Vicky. She died in 1901. When I was a boy, we used to say a poem:

The 24th of May is the Queen's birthday.
If you don't give us a holiday, we'll all run away.

Clever, weren't we?

Victoria Day was fun back then. We could buy fireworks and firecrackers which we used to blow up tulips and small animals - frogs and the like. Boys can be cruel little buggers. Firecrackers were our favourite. We'd light the fuse and place one in a neighbour's milk chute or perhaps toss one toward an unsuspecting pedestrian and then laugh insanely at the astonished reaction. Nobody was ever seriously hurt, Ms J, apart from slightly burned fingers and the occasional temporary tinnitus from a blast too close to the head.

But we're too stupid to be trusted with firecrackers anymore. We're too irresponsible, too careless. So says the government. Firecrackers (the small, fused explosives that go off with a bang) cannot be bought or sold here now. Too dangerous, they say. We're idiots now, you see.

We weren't always, of course. We used to have common sense. Parents taught their children. People respected each other. Kids were still kids, but we played largely without harm or threat of injury.

I don't know what changed, or when. Or how. But evidently, we're a society of morons now, with a propensity for violence, murder and mayhem, and without the slightest regard for the traditional Canadian concepts of peace, order, and good government. Highly dangerous items such as firecrackers and candy cigarettes, if allowed into the hands of today's maladjusted and malevolent public ...

Well, there's no telling what sort of chaos might ensue.

I am grateful to our governments for passing legislation to save us from ourselves.

***

WTF??

I posted that lovely piece about my English visitors and no one can comment on it. Where is the comment feature? And where is my little pencil icon that allows post editing? It's working fine here. Why not on the post below? Can anyone help?

English People are COOL!!!!!

I've been socialising again, Ms J. Yup. I've been missing work (a depressing place, anyway) to spend time with friends. Spending time with friends always lifts my spirits. But these weren't just any old friends. No. These were special visitors from across the Atlantic ocean. These were blog mates. And they'd come to Toronto from England. Ipswich, Suffolk, England. They were (and still are, I suspect) Andy and Donna from Crash 'n Donna fame, and their friends Mark and Ann(e?)

We met in Toronto at a downtown pub on Tuesday. I had just come from Andra's school of dental hygiene after a preliminary scraping and cursory blood-letting when my cell phone rang. I had voice mail. Someone had phoned while I was in the dentist's chair. The voice was unfamiliar but very friendly, and with a delightful British accent.

"Hi Dale. It's Donna. We've just been to the CN Tower. Now we're off for a beer. Can you join us? Cheers! Byeeeee!"

'Dough-na.' She pronounced it 'Dough-na.'

I liked that. It sounded much nicer than 'Dah-na'. That's the way we say it here, Ms J. I smiled and called her back and we made a plan to meet. They'd walk a few "streets" north (they don't have "blocks" in England. They just call them "streets". They do, however, have "bollocks", but that's a different story) and I'd walk a few south and we'd meet in the middle. We met at a pub called the Duke of Argyle and shared an hour or two with beer and stories. It was nice meeting them, as I felt I already knew them from reading their blog. Actually, Ms Journal, they're even nicer in real Life. And Donna's hair is even pinker than I imagined! Mark seems an incredibly happy man, always ready with a joke or to laugh at mine. He and Ann have been married since before the Norman Conquest. Andy and Donna make a nice couple as well. They're four happy friends off on a wonderful adventure in a faraway land, and I really wanted to be part of that adventure.

I planned a bbq dinn .. er, I mean "tea" at my place and invited a few friends. Unfortunately, everything seemed to go wrong. The weather was cold and rainy. The barbecue wouldn't work properly. The feta cheese had gone bad. It was mid-week and everyone said the same when I called to invite them.

"On a Wednesday? But I've got work in the morning!"

Little Christine popped by to deliver some tomato plants but couldn't stay. Kirk and Rey had other commitments. I couldn't get hold of Girl Alex. But the ones I most wanted to attend were all there. Dan and Meagan. Jenn came over to help as well. I think she was happy to be occupied for a few hours. Thanks, Jenn-jenn!

I drove in pouring rain and horrible rush hour traffic to Georgetown to get the kids and their respective boy/girl friends. Dan and Sarah. Meagan and Stevie.

"I'll be back soon," I told my guests.

I was gone for nearly THREE hours! Jenn and our English friends were left here with nothing to do but talk. And drink beer. And wine. And laugh. And have a jolly good time. Without me.

Anyway, I finally arrived with four hungry teens and we cooked the hamburgers in the oven and ate salad without feta cheese and just thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. The young people surprised me by sticking around to visit with the adults. It seems they were impressed with Andy and Donna. And with Mark and Ann.

Click the pics for further comment.


Are those Mark's fingers behind Andy's head?



What a delightful couple they are! Ann's a librarian. She liked Dad's book.



These two seemed to hit it off. Birds of a feather, so to speak.



After tea, we had a bit of a cultural exchange. They don't have cell phones in England, Ms J. They call them mobile phones. Or simply mobiles. Mark calls his a "fewn", but that's just the way he talks.

I learned a new word: skint
Mark learned a new word: Gearbox
And Meagan learned a new word: bollocks

There were four very excited teens I took home that night.

"They like punk music. They're adults but they're totally into punk! Mark knows all about The Dead Kennedys and shit. And The Adicts are from Ipswich. That's their home town!"

"Andy gave me some stickers. From really cool English punk bands. And a monkey. A tea monkey."

"And they have tattoos!"

"Andy has a lovely pair of tits on his arm, eh? Did you see Andy's tits?"

"I like the skull Donna has. Wicked, eh?"

"Yeah. It's the dog's bollocks!"

(Uproarious laughter from the back seat.)

"She has two of them. Tattoos I mean. And her hair! Holy f... Holy cow! Isn't it cool?"

Dan was in the front seat beside me and he touched my arm.

"We've never met real live English people before, Dad. English people are cool."

I have to agree with my boy, Ms J. English people are cool.

They're off sightseeing around town today. Tomorrow, they're going to Niagara Falls and then to a scooter rally in nearby Welland. They'll be in boring old New York City next week.

They've left Mimico, Ms J. And the sun is shining brightly again.

Pffff!

***

Greetings from Mimico ....

This is a guest post!! It's Donna from Crash n Donna here ... We're visiting with Dale all the way from England. He's left me to post a blog ... he's brave. We brought great weather - it's raining here, just as it did when we went to Las Vegas. Dale's gonna have to bbq with a brolly! That's all, we're off to buy provisions. byeeeeee

" ... and I'm feeling pretty proud."

Dan called yesterday. He had some news to tell me.

"I got a job, eh Dad? And I got a cell phone."

I must say, Ms J, I was surprised. Pleasantly so.

"A job? Really, Dan? Where?"

"At a pizza place. I'm making dough. Finally, eh?"

We both laughed at his pun. My son has always been quick witted and clever with words.

"And what about the cell phone, Boy?" I asked. "Is it new?"

He told me no, he'd bought it from a friend for twenty dollars. "I just buy more time as I need it."

I was smiling, Ms J. I was smiling for my son. He seemed happy. It was the first time I'd heard him this way in months.

"And I'll be getting my last welfare cheque at the end of the month. I won't be needing them anymore. I'll be looking after myself. Me and Sarah. It's gonna be a good summer, Dad. I'll be working hard and making money. Once I get a bit of savings, I'm moving out of this apartment and getting a better place."

Baby steps, Ms J. That's the way we move forward. With baby steps.

I told him he sounded happy.

"I am happy, Dad. And I'm feeling pretty proud."

"I'm proud of you too, son," I said. "I'm feeling pretty proud too."

"I'm glad to hear that, Dad. Thanks."

Could be my prayers have been answered. Could be Dan's grown up a little more. Maybe a combination of both, Ms Journal, but it doesn't really matter. What matters is that my son has found gainful employment and for the time being, contentment and self-satisfaction.

Making pizza dough is not a lucrative or Lifelong career, but it's a job. And having a job gives a man purpose. A job makes a man feel proud. And right now, I'm feeling proud of my son.

I'm feeling pretty proud.

***

Choices Fortuitous

I went to visit the tax accountant on Friday. Joe’s a nice guy but he doesn’t appear to care much about his customers. I submitted my tax package to him at least three weeks ago and heard nothing from him until I finally popped in to visit late last week.

“I can’t do your taxes, Dale,” he told me then. “You said you sold some shares but there’s no record of it here.”

It would have been nice if you’d informed me of this, I thought, although I didn’t say it. I returned home that day and spent the afternoon on the phone trying without success to track down the form I needed to submit to Revenue Canada. It turns out that the shares were sold in 2007, so there’s no investment income to declare for the 2006 taxation year. The profit I earned from the sale of that stock will be subject to capital gains tax next year.

I sat and waited while Joe entered my information into his computer and the outcome was a happy one. I’m getting a refund of $2200.

Now, what shall I do with that money, Ms Journal? Apply it to my mortgage? Pay off my furnace loan? My credit card? Add it to the money I’ve saved for Meagan’s education? Or donate it to charity to offset the extra tax I’ll have to pay next year?

Tough choices, Ms J. But I’m truly blessed in the fact that I have these choices to make. For many people, in less fortunate circumstances, these options would never occur. For less fortunate souls, the choice comes down to feeding their children or paying the rent.

Hmmm ... Maybe I’ve made up my mind.

***

A Pleasant Surprise

I worked a Georgetown train yesterday afternoon and as I exited the pedestrian tunnel which leads from the platform to the parking lot, I heard a familiar voice.

“DAD!!!”

It was my Meagan. She was standing by the station, talking on the pay phone there.

“Hello, Scout!” I said. “What are you doing here?”

She told me she’d been visiting her brother (he lives quite close to the train station) and she had planned to meet with her stepfather. She and Scott were going to go out to dinner together.

“But now he’s gone to Montreal or somewhere on business and I’m stranded here with no way to get home.”

“It’s your lucky day,” I told her. “Actually, if you’ll agree to have dinner with me, it’ll be my lucky day too. Will you join me for dinner? Dan too, if you can fetch him.”

“Sure Dad. That’d be great! Sarah’s over at Dan’s right now. Could she come too?”

And so I waited while Meagan went to get her brother and his new girlfriend. The exact location of Dan’s home is kept secret.

(“He doesn’t want you to see that he lives in a dump, Dad.”)

We had dinner at a nearby restaurant and I listened to Dan’s plan to get a job. It was the same story he’s been telling for about two years now, but it didn’t seem to bother me this time. It just felt nice to be with him. It felt nice to be with both my kids. And Sarah seems quite - dare I say it? - normal.

Dan’s beard had been trimmed. His eyes were clear and blue. His hair was clean.

And Meagan’s hair was green. Bright green.

***

Quiet Times

Do you ever have quiet times, Ms J? Or long for them? I mean times when there is nothing to say, nothing to discuss. Times when you wish the world might leave you alone for a few days? My thoughts have been moving in that direction today. But Life's demands are sometimes hard to ignore.

Andra needs me as a client to help with her dental training in Toronto.

Meagan has three (THREE!) more appointments with her dentist in Streetsville this month.

The lawn is getting shaggy and desperately needs mowing, but Alan's old car is still in the driveway and still blocking access to the garage.

I've earned less than half of what I made last pay and I worry about having enough to cover the bills in two weeks.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful, Ms J. I'm not, you know.

Andra is a dear and true friend. She held my hand for months and helped me cope with a broken heart after my marriage failed in 2000.

Meagan is my daughter. I adore her. She's important, and so is her oral health.

Alan will move his car. I've phoned him and he'll come next weekend. I'm glad at last to have a lawn after years of apartment living.

And I'll get by. The bills will be paid. They always seem to. Somehow.

Things could be worse, Ms Journal. I could be dying of lung cancer like my friend, Shirley. I visited her today. I stayed about an hour. She looks pretty good. Tired though. And on continuous oxygen. She hugged me. And we laughed together. Turns out she knows my sister through a mutual friend.

"Small world," she said.

"But I wouldn't want to paint it," was my reply and we laughed some more.

Such a gentle soul, Shirley is. Sweet. Hospitable. Down-to-earth. And terminally ill.

Life is sweet, Ms Journal. Despite the current chaotic state of my Life, it's still sweet.

Sweet.

***

Facebook

What an odd name! Facebook. It's like Myspace. It seems we've grown weary of using spaces betweenwordsnowadaysMsJ.

Not much to tell you today.

Wanna see some photos? Go here.

***