Canada's Birthday Weekend

It's that time of the year again, Ms J. It's Canada Day. Officially, it'll be on Sunday. July 1. Yup. That's our day. That's our big, happy, festive, sunny summer day when some thirty million Canadians celebrate the birth of our nation. The original event occurred on July 1st, 1867 in the Atlantic city of Charlottetown in Canada's tiniest province, Prince Edward Island.

By most standards, we're a young nation. One hundred and forty years old. Compared to European countries, I reckon we're still adolescent. And we're still experiencing growing pains as we mature: multi-culturalism, legal reform, foreign affairs policies, and a thousand special interest groups with the French separatists leading the charge. Apparently, the French have never quite recognised their military defeat at the hands of the British on the Plains of Abraham in 1759. Get over it, people. Is it so terrible to be a hyphenated-Canadian? Every other nationality in the world seems OK with it.

This weekend, the big news story is the travel disruption caused by Canada's First Nations people. I call them Indians, Ms J. But I suppose that's not acceptable anymore. The government calls them Aboriginals. The media call them First Nations. They call themselves poor, downtrodden, disadvantaged, ignored, and by now, fed up. They've set up blockades to prevent rail and road traffic on the country's busiest corridors. They want to "educate" Canadians, and induce us to "hear their stories." Travellers on this first, and busiest long weekend of the summer, will be in no mood to listen.

VIA Rail has cancelled train service between Toronto and Montreal. There will be a lot of disappointed people, Ms J. A lot. And those whose travel plans involve major roads will incur lengthy delays as well. On the bright side though, my malevolent, and fiercely hated employer will be unable to operate their highly profitable freight trains in that region. And that leaves me smiling.

So, all things considered, it'll be a good weekend for me. I spent yesterday with Dan and Meagan. And I have no plans to travel this weekend. I'm off to work on a GO train this afternoon and, if the police don't force the Injuns to remove their rail blockade, I may get some time off this weekend.

Ahhh, summer. Life's good, Ms J. God bless those Natives.

***

Another Life Lesson

"Neither a borrower nor a lender be;" said Shakespeare's Polonius. "For loan oft loses both itself and friend."

I feel a little embarrassed to admit this, Ms J, but I loaned some money to a friend. A lot of money. She needed help, and I was able to offer it. It's a complicated story. Very complicated, actually. And I won't go into it here.

"Just til the house is sold," she promised. "I'll pay you back as soon as I sell the house."

That was in April. April 20th. The house remains unsold. The loan remains unpaid. And I haven't heard from her since. That money would buy a new roof for my house. Or provide a bit of comfort to a struggling relative.

So I wait. And I hope. Hoping and waiting. It's been a familiar theme lately.

Whether or not I recover this money, Ms Journal, I will have learned a lesson. The wisdom of William Shakespeare is undeniable.

"For loan oft loses both itself and friend."

Waiting and hoping. Hoping and waiting.

***

Coming This Summer ...

This old house is in need of new shingles. The black asphalt shingles are probably fifteen years old and beginning to curl and warp. If left alone, they'll only continue to deteriorate. One day I may find my roof leaking. I don't want that, Ms J. I don't want to find myself in the same predicament as the man who, upon discovering his leaky roof, declared, "I don't know what to do! It only leaks when it's raining, and I don't want to work on the roof in the rain. I could repair the roof when it's not raining, but it doesn't leak then."

I've noticed a few signs on local lawns advertising "Peter and Greg Walker Roofing" and so I called the other day. As it happens, I actually went to school with Greg Walker. He was in my class for the first five or six years of public school. His brother, Peter, was a year or two older. And their father, Don Walker, was my Boy Scout leader. They're a good family, Ms Journal. Good people.

A representative came round this morning to inspect the job. A young man, tall and handsome. Shaun was his name. He took photos and measurements, and he made a thorough inspection of the job to be done. He was quite affable and we chatted in the garden like friends.

"What's your budget, Dale," he asked at the end. "How much were you planning on spending?"

Well, I had no idea what the job might cost, Ms J. I told him "Around fifteen hundred dollars, I guess. Maybe two thousand."

Shaun looked a bit uncomfortable, suddenly. He fastened his pen to his clip board and raised his face to the roof again.

"Yeah. Well, I don't mean to offend you, but ..."

"Three thousand?" I said.

"Well, actually, it could be as much as five thousand. You've got four layers of shingles up there now. That'll all have to be removed. There's a disposal fee as well."

I nodded my head and took a breath and whistled softly.

"There may be complications," he continued. "Rotten roof boards, chimney flashing. You know. That sort of thing. Is this your first estimate for this job?"

I told him yes.

"Well, I encourage you to shop around. You certainly don't have to hire the first company that comes along. I can assure you, however, that Peter and Greg hire competent, trustworthy employees. They stand behind their work and they've been in business here for twenty-five years. Many of us have worked there for years. We just did a job for a neighbour of yours over on Stanley Avenue. If you like, you can go and talk to them. See if they're happy with the work we did."

I visited the site when the job was being completed, Ms J. They did a fabulous job! And they left the property clean and tidy when they were done.

I may get another estimate, you know, just to say I did, but I think I'll probably award the job to my old class mate. I'm pleased that he's done well and that his business appears to be thriving here, not far from where we grew up. I'd like it very much, if Greg popped by for a visit some time. He was a good boy as I recall. And his mum and dad were really nice.

***

Yup. Just As I'd Feared

Went to bed at 10:00 last night. I lay there for an hour worrying about the phone ringing and sending me off to work. I was tired, Ms J, but I couldn't go to sleep right away.

When the phone finally woke me, it was 1:00 a.m.

"We need you for a work train," said the voice at the other end. "0300 on duty. You'll be getting a train load of crushed stone and spreading it along the track near Hagerman."

I closed my eyes in the dark and slowly shook my head. A work train is a train that carries specialised equipment or material used to build or repair track. Train crews don't actually perform that work; we operate the train for the men who do.

"A work train?" said I.

"That's correct, over."

"At three o'clock in the morning?"

"That's correct, over."

He was getting annoying, Ms J. And I was in no mood for his unnecessary "overs" on the telephone.

"You don't have to say 'over' on the telephone, you know," I told him.

"I know," he said. "But that's my thing. I always say over, over."

I could feel myself getting more irritated but there was no use arguing with the guy. I know him. He's a moron.

"0300, eh? For a work train?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Then this phone call is over. Over."

And I hung up.

Three o'clock in the morning, Ms Journal! What brand of insanity would possess someone to order a work train at three o'clock in the morning? The sun doesn't come up til 6:00.

It's times like that, when I've had two hours sleep, and I'm roused by a moron at 1:00 in the morning, and I drive to work and get a train and take it out on the main line and sit for six hours in the heat before the track workers are ready for us, and we end up working ten long, tedious hours and not really accomplishing much of anything ...

It's times like that, Ms J, when I hate the spareboard.

Gosh, I'm tired.

G' night.

***

Life On The Spareboard

The spareboard, Ms J. It's a rotating list of men who are called to work in their turn. We spareboard men operate any and all trains over a wide variety of territory. We are called to replace employees who are sick, under rest or on vacation. When our tour of duty is complete, our name returns to the bottom of the spareboard list. The Crew Management Centre phones us to work again when we reach the top of the list. If we have booked rest (6-24 hours), we cannot be called until the rest period has expired, even if our name is at the top of the list.

Tu comprends?

I awoke at 5:00 this morning. It wasn't the phone that woke me. I woke on my own. After an hour or so of spinning like ... well, you remember my dad's expression, I got up and began my day. I had booked rest after work last night. Eight hours, I think. My rest was up at 0455 and I had hoped to go to work this morning. The morning came and went and the phone did not ring. It's five o'clock right now. The afternoon is nearly gone. And still no call from work.

I hate when this happens, Ms J. I've been awake and busy all day today. Now, this evening, when I'm tired and ready for bed, the phone will ring and I'll have to go to work. Somewhere. It could be a freight train. Or maybe a GO train. Maybe I'll have to drive to Aldershot. Or Oshawa. Or maybe CN's massive freight yard in Concord. Or possibly Oakville.

This is when the spareboard SUX.

When there's lots of work, and I get called as soon as my rest is up, it's not too bad. I make lots of money and I can (sort of) regulate my work hours to allow me to have a Life beyond the railway. I'd like to go to church tomorrow morning. There's a music concert I'd like to attend on Sunday afternoon. A man is coming here Monday morning to give me a quote on replacing the shingles on my house. I have tickets for a dinner cruise on Lake Ontario on Wednesday. And Scout and I want to go to the zoo this month.

But work comes first. That's the way they want it, Ms J. They want to control every minute of my Life. They want us all married to our jobs. A few years ago, before the American invasion, we could take a day off when we wanted it. No questions asked. Sure, a few abused the privilege. But most did not.

Life on the spareboard. It's the best of times ... and the worst of times.

***

A Brush With the Law

I overslept this morning, Ms J. I took a call at 0240 to go to work in Stouffville and then fell back to sleep. I woke an hour later and jumped into my clothes and hurried out the door. I was facing a sixty-five kilometre drive to work. That's about forty-three miles. I needed gas. And I had less than an hour to get to work. As I raced northward along Toronto's winding Don Valley Parkway in the pre-dawn darkness, there were but two drivers on the highway: Me, and a cop. I had only travelled a few kilometres when flashing red lights and a blaring siren shattered the early morning calm.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?" said a voice from somewhere beyond a blinding flashlight.

I nodded my head solemnly.

"I was going a bit fast, I reckon."

The flashlight beam swept the interior of my car. Front seat. Floor. Back seat.

"You were going 139 in a posted 90 zone."

I squinted into the light and nodded. There was really nothing I could say, Ms J, and I knew it. He had me.

"Drivers' license, ownership and insurance please, sir."

I fumbled in the glove box, found the papers and handed them to him.

"I'm late for work," I mumbled.

"Yeah. Well you'll be later now," he said as he held the light to the papers I'd given him. "Did you know your insurance has expired? It expired in February."

The insurance company had mailed me a new form early this year when I renewed my policy, but I can't remember what I did with the damn thing. Obviously, I hadn't put it in the car where it belonged. So now I was going to get two tickets. One for speeding and one for failing to produce proof of valid insurance. I swallowed hard and spoke.

"No sir. I didn't realise the card had expired. I do have valid insurance. I must have forgotten to put the new card in the car. I have a good driving record. I don't usually ..."

It occurred to me then that this young man had probably heard every sad story imaginable. Every excuse. So I gave up and simply apologised.

"Sorry, man. I was going too fast. You got me."

The cop withdrew to his cruiser and I was alone with my embarrassment. The roof lights behind me were like a marquee announcing my predicament to the world. Cars passed by and I wondered if their drivers felt sympathy for me, or derision. After what seemed an eternity, the constable appeared again at my window.

"I have to give you a ticket. That's my job. There's been a few serious accidents lately on this road," he said. "Fatal accidents, caused by excessive speed. I'm giving you a ticket for going 105 in a 90 zone. It'll cost you $52.50. If I wrote it up for the full amount, it'd be well over 300 bucks." He handed me my papers along with a yellow offence notice. "Slow down, please sir. And get your insurance papers in order, eh?"

I could have hugged the man, Ms Journal! He'd been more than fair with me. He'd shown grace and compassion. I smiled all the way to Stouffville where I found my crew calmly getting ready for work. I wasn't late at all. I'd mistaken the time. I'd risked my Life and possibly the Lives of others for nothing.

I feel incredibly lucky. And yes, I've learned an important lesson:

If you speak respectfully to cops, sometimes they'll let you off easy.

Oh. And obey the speed limit. Right. So that's two lessons then.

***

I'm Back!

It's Monday, Ms J. Where have I been?

I had a brilliant weekend. I saw my father and my daughter and an old friend. They were three separate incidents, Ms J. Let me get a cup of coffee downstairs and I'll come back and tell you all about it. Hang on a sec'. I'll be right back.

OK. I worked on Saturday, then drove up to Mt. Forest to see my dear ol' dad. Mum's fine, but poor Dad has a black eye. He removed his glasses and grinned at me.

"Look what I did to my goddamn eye," he said.

"Yeah," I replied. "I noticed it earlier but I didn't want to mention it. What on earth happened?"

Details are a bit sketchy, but it seems he was lying on the chesterfield resting when the phone rang. Mum wasn't home at the time, so Dad jumped up to answer the phone and blacked out before he could take a step.

"My body went ahead," he said, "but my legs didn't want to go. I guess I hit my face on the arm of Mum's chair."

I asked him if he remembered falling.

"No," he said. "I remember getting up and going to move, and the next thing I knew I was down and my face was hurting like a bitch. I felt it with my hand but there was no blood. It's a good job I didn't have my glasses on. It woulda cut me all to hell wouldn't it?"

I worry about my dad, Ms J. When I think of him falling and hurting himself, my heart aches. He was so active when he was younger. He was the dad who played hockey with us, and baseball. He played with us. He taught us new games like Indian leg wrestling and airplane rides. And he showed us how to make catapults and slingshots. Neighbourhood kids would knock on our door and ask if Mr. Pringle could come out and play.

And now he's old. Eighty-five. And it breaks my heart to see him wither. It breaks my "goddamn" heart.

---

Meagan phoned me on Friday.

"You gonna be around on Sunday, Dad? It's Father's Day, eh?"

She wants to see me, Ms Journal. My daughter wants to come visit her dad and I'm so pleased she does. Of course I made myself available.

"Absolutely, Scout!" I smiled. "I'll be home. Want me to come fetch you? We can spend the day together!"

She was in the city with her stepsister and promised to visit on Sunday afternoon.

"I didn't get a card for you, Dad. But I'm gonna visit you. I can give you a hug instead."

That's just the BEST Father's Day gift a dad could ever get.

I busied myself with outdoor work while I awaited her arrival. I was tying up the rose bushes in the front garden when I heard the unmistakable thump-thump-thump of a Harley Davidson. I watched as the rider deployed the kickstand and switched off the engine.

"Who the heck is this?" I wondered. "I don't know anyone rich enough to own a Harley. Especially not one as nice as this one." The rider removed his helmet and glasses as he approached me.

"Dale Pringle?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "That's right."

"Brian McMullen," he said and stuck his hand out.

It was a name and a face from the distant past. Brian was a boyhood chum of mine. He was in my grade two class at school when we were no more than six or seven years old. We knew each other over the next ten years. Dad and I helped Brian paint his van when we were teens. But, as happens with most high school friendships, we went our separate ways after graduation. I became a railroader like my dad. Brian went on to become an accountant.

I offered him some lemonade and a slice of watermelon and we sat for about an hour and chatted about who went where and whatever happened to ol' what's-er-name. It was good, Ms J. Real good. I'm so pleased he came to visit.

"Yeah, I read your blog a couple of times and it got me thinking about you. I Googled your name and here I am."

I do hope he comes round again sometime. And I told him so.

---

Meagan arrived less than ten minutes after Brian left. She looked fabulous as ever, resplendent in a new t-shirt and shorts. Her green hair has faded to a muted blue.

"Here's yer Father's Day card," she said and put her arms around me. I held her tightly and smiled like the Cheshire cat. Her hair smelled of fruity shampoo.

She spent most of the afternoon upstairs here, downloading "ska" music to her music folder. She didn't bring her iPod with her so she couldn't take the new music home. She was a bit disappointed in that, but as usual, she bore it well. I must say, Ms J, she deals with Life's disappointments much better than her father.

"Whatever," she says, and shrugs her shoulders.

After dinner, we sat and talked at the table.

"I wish Dan was here," I said. "Have you seen him lately?"

She told me no, not for a few days.

"I hope he's alright," I said.

"He's fine, Dad. Why?"

"Well, he doesn't return my phone calls. I've sent him text messages and left voice mail. Why doesn't he call me back?"

Meagan used her fingers to pluck a single pea from her plate and carefully placed it in her mouth. I waited while she chewed it thoroughly and swallowed it.

"Yeah. The phone. Well, it's kinda ... at the bottom of the river. It's pretty much fried, I think."

I raised my eyebrows, took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. Just a week ago, I had bought $50. worth of phone time for Dan.

"At the bottom of the river, eh? I wonder how it got there, Scout?"

"It was an accident, Dad. He didn't throw it in."

"I didn't say he did. I'm just a bit confused as to how a cell phone, freshly loaded with minutes, found its way into the river."

She held another pea between thumb and forefinger and stared at me and blinked.

"I don't know," she stated firmly. "All I know is what he told me. They were down by the river and the phone fell in. That's all I know. Don't be mad at him, Dad. It was an accident. Dan's pissed off at himself, 'cause now he has no phone. They have to walk to the train station to use the pay phone there."

"But I've been trying to reach him!"

"Yeah. And you couldn't because he didn't have a phone." She popped the pea in her mouth and turned her palms up. "It is what it is, Dad. You don't have to freak out about it."

You see what I mean, Ms J? I don't handle disappointment very well. The girl was right and I apologised.

"I'll probably see him on Monday. I'll tell him you'd like to hear from him. OK?"

I felt a little embarrassed. It wasn't the first time, either. I covered it well, I think, and offered a solution.

"Hey, I've got an idea. Why don't we roll all the coins I have upstairs on my dresser. There's probably enough money there to get Dan a new cell phone."

A bright smile lit Meagan's face.

"That's a great idea, Dad! He'd love that. I know he would. Let's do it then. You get the roller thingies and I'll get the money."

We rolled $416. That will get the boy a phone. And some minutes. And some new CD's for Meagan. And a toy for baby David. And, and, and ...

Meagan and I are going to the zoo on June 27th. We go every year for her birthday. We're a bit late this year, but we're continuing our tradition and that's what counts. We'll get a phone for the boy on that day. And we'll surprise him with it.

"He'd love that. I know he would."

***

On My Soapbox

I'd just finished doing some work in the garden this morning and the sun was getting hot. I wiped my sweaty face and decided I'd done enough for the moment. I poured a glass of lemonade from a plastic jug in the fridge and sat down at the little table on the deck to enjoy my drink. The sun was bright and the sky was flawlessly clear. A gentle breeze tugged at the white sheets on the clothes line next door. It was a perfect day. I sipped from my glass and smiled at the wonder of it all. Then I reached for my cigarettes.

I don't smoke, Ms Journal. I used to, but I quit. It was November of 2000. I'd been taking steps to regain control of my Life and tobacco was just another addiction. It was difficult to quit, but quit I did. And I will never go back.

So what on earth, do you suppose, made me reach for a smoke today? It was such a familiar motion. Comfortable. Comfort-ing, I think is a more honest description of the feeling. It's been nearly seven years since my last cigarette. And I still think about it. The Truth, is that I think more often about smoking than about doing drugs.

Anyone who underestimates the addictiveness of tobacco is a fool, Ms J. And they're only fooling themselves.

Will someone help me down from this box?

***

Attendant l'Amour -- Waiting For Love

Christine was here for dinner tonight. She's a friend I've known about seven years I guess. I first met her in a play we did together. At the time, my marriage to Donna had just ended and I was quite attracted to Christine. Since then, we've become close friends. Although we never dated, I must admit that I love her. I love her as a friend, Ms J, as a sister. Not a romantic Love. Believe me when I tell you it's better that way. Anyway, she was here and we had some salad and hamburgers. We dined al fresco on my lovely new deck and she told me about her latest heartbreak and her new boyfriend.

"I've seen him a couple of times," she said. "But honestly, I don't think there's much chemistry there. How 'bout you, Dale? Are you seeing anyone?"

I had taken a great gulp of wine and I hurried to swallow it.

"No. You know me, Steenie. I may never date again."

"Why not?" she asked. "You love to flirt. Why don't you ask for a phone number sometime?"

I told her I was scared.

"Of what?"

"I dunno," I said and took another sip from my glass.

"Scared she'd say no?"

"Yeah. And scared she'd say yes."

My Life is pretty good at the moment, Ms J. I mean I've got my house and my job and my friends and my kids and ... Well, it's fairly good. You know? Uncomplicated. I don't have to answer to anybody. I can be as tidy or as messy as I like. I come and go as I please. Wear what I want. Eat when I'm hungry. Sleep when I'm tired. A woman would make demands.

"Why didn't you call me?"

"Aren't we going to my mother's house this weekend?"

"We should replace that old chair."

"Go wash your feet and put on clean socks."

I just don't need the bullshit, Ms J. I don't need it. And I told Christine that.

"But don't you get lonely?" she asked. "Don't you worry about growing old alone?"

The Truth, Ms Journal, is that I do. I do get lonely sometimes. I suppose that's why I invited Christine here tonight. It's nice to have someone to eat with. Let's face it. Eating is a communal thing, isn't it? Most of us don't enjoy eating alone. It's nice to have someone to share thoughts and ideas with over a good meal. Even better if it's an attractive woman.

I'm a little envious of my friend. She has yet to find happiness in a relationship, but she continues to search. She's been to a dating service. And she's registered with internet dating sites like LavaLife. She puts herself out there. And she's met a lot of men. One day, she'll meet the right one.

And me? I just sit and wait for Love to find me. I'll be alright if it doesn't, of course. I know I'll be fine. But sometimes, just sometimes, I think it might be nice to have someone to come home to. A person. A woman. A woman who loves me.

Ya know?

***

Insomnia

I lay awake at night, Ms J, when I really ought to be sound asleep. I go to work tired in the morning. Dead tired. I need more sleep. But sleep eludes me lately. As usual, the stimulant is worry. Again, and still, the source is my dear ex-wife.

When I married her, I was convinced it was the right thing to do. I was absolutely positive I was doing the right thing. I now realise that, except for Kelly, I was the only one who thought this way. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined how she would change and what she would eventually become. I never dreamt she'd end up living like common trailer trash. I remain shocked and appalled at the things she's done:

Kelly divorced her second husband, and in an act of anger and vindictiveness, had him charged with rape. I don't know many details, but the poor man very nearly went to prison before she recanted her testimony and implored the crown to drop the charges.

Desperate for financial support, she then began a relationship with her husband's ex-friend. Their lack of responsibility resulted in a dangerous pregnancy but thankfully, a healthy child. Kelly's child. Emily is three now. Tim is the father, and although he and Kelly are now no more than room mates, he continues to live there. Poor Tim has few Life skills, a low paying job, and has never lived on his own.

She introduced her son (our son) to a retarded girl and encouraged a relationship between them, a pairing that resulted in the birth of another child. Maxine still lives with Kelly and baby David, but Dan does not. David is fifteen months old.

In the thirteen years since our divorce, my ex-wife has moved at least six times. Each time, Meagan was forced to adjust to a new school and make new friends. Dan too. Indeed, Kelly appears to enjoy chaos and actively seeks it in her Life. Often, in times of relative calm, she actually manufactures bedlam and turmoil. I know this, Ms J. I've seen it!

And now she believes she can earn a living (a handsome one) from the proceeds of sex. No, she does not plan to provide sex per se, only a place for consenting adults to engage in fantasy sex play. Whatever. It's still disgusting. It's still wrong. Immoral. Dirty. What will she teach Meagan? Will my daughter learn that sex is a cheap commodity, a consumer product to be bought and sold? Will she come to understand the sacredness of sex or will she see it as her mother does, as nothing more than playtime for adults? Will she too see the profit to be made and follow her mother's example? Call me conservative, Ms J, but I really don't approve of selling sex as a way to earn a living.

My daughter is fifteen years old, Ms J. She's discovering her own sexuality as she becomes a woman. These are formative years. These teenage years are crucial to her ability eventually to find happiness as an adult, happiness in relationships. There's a whole, great, big, wonderful world out there waiting for Meagan to embrace it. But there are lessons to be mastered along the way. Important lessons.

Will she learn them? Can she learn them? With her mother?

And so I toss and turn in bed, Ms J, twisting the bed clothes round and round myself. I spin, as my father would say, "like the button on a shithouse door." But sleep won't come.

I will place my worries in the hands of Mother God, Ms Journal ... And hope She'll guide us through this mess as She has so often in the past.

I love you, Scout. I love you to the moon and back. Love yourself even half that much, Honey, and you'll be fine.

Please God, please show her the path toward the Light.

***

Funny, Funky, Fearful Friday.

It's Friday, Ms J. So what, you say. Friday's just another day, right? An ordinary day, right? It began that way, it's true. But through a series of odd occurrences, it ended with me feeling amused, befuddled, proud, angry and just a little bit fearful. Here Ms Journal, in no particular order, is what I witnessed today:

Three young men lined up beside the track this afternoon and displayed six bare, white buttocks to a thousand homebound commuters. I offered a blast on the whistle as we passed and they all jumped away in fright. (That was the amusing part.)

Meagan went to the dentist today, her last visit. She's had eleven cavities filled and the cost of it all was over $2000. My company dental plan paid $1600 and I paid the rest. Thank goodness for dental plans. We were on our way home at 10:30 and Meagan wanted to go back to school. Wanted to go to school! (Proud, Ms J.)

I spoke with her mum later. Kelly's excited about opening a ... Are you ready for this one, Ms J? ... A s*xual r*treat. "It's really cool, Dale. It has a dungeon and everything. Meagan helped decorate it last weekend. She was a big help. It's not like I'm doing it myself, eh? People who are into the Lifestyle will pay big bucks to have a special place to get away. We have toys and little fantasy chambers and stuff. We'll welcome gays and straights and transgendered people or anybody at all who's into the Lifestyle. We've spent so much money on it. We've spent like $3000, eh? Tim's mum helped too. I've been into the Lifestyle for a few years now and I really think this business will take off." (Yeah. Befuddled here.)

This "business" is planned for a small town in a rural area. The town has about eight churches. 3000 conservative townsfolk. A few hundred local farmers. And a sizable population of Mennonites. How do I know this? Because it's the town where my parents live! Should I tell them, or wait until they hear about it on the news?

Kelly plans to move again, this time to another town near her business. Of course, she'll take my daughter and my grandson. They'll be MUCH further away from me. Meagan will have to attend a new school. Again. Make new friends. Again. And I really don't want her exposed to the deviants who'll freak-quent Kelly's establishment. I don't want her exposed to Kelly's "Lifestyle." (Mmmm-hmmm. That's the angry and fearful part.) My God, Ms J! What on earth is that woman thinking??

So it's been a bit of a strange day. I'm off to bed now. I can't wait to see what tomorrow will bring.

***

Anything for a Friend

Hang on, Ms J. I've got to have a good, big stretch.

Eeeeeeeeeee-yaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh.

There. That's better. I'm tired today. I had a busy day yesterday. Andra cleaned and scraped and debrided and de-plaqued the last of my teeth yesterday morning. Then I went to work. Twice. I worked all night last night and I'm just home now.

I was nearly three hours in that dental clinic. Andra really went to work on my teeth this time. She scraped them, then she polished them. Then she scraped a bit more. I must have the cleanest teeth in the world by now.

"Andie," I said, "my teeth are so clean, I'll bet I could eat off them."

"I've got to make sure I didn't miss anything," she told me. "The instructor will be round in a minute to check my work. They're really fussy about everything, you know. They check to make sure ..."

And she prattled on about the importance of getting it just right while my jaw ached from holding my mouth open for three hours.

"This will be your last visit for six months, Dale. I really appreciate ---"

"OUCH!" I said. She'd pricked my gum with her instrument. It hurt like hell.

She put her hand over my mouth to quiet me.

"Shhhhh! Be quiet! We get an automatic "F" if we injure the client. Now open up."

I slowly opened my mouth again and moved my tongue to feel the sore spot. I tasted blood.

"I hope I didn't cause any soft tissue trauma," she whispered. "Move your tongue out of the way."

She pulled my cheek back with a gloved finger and winced.

"Shit! I took a big chunk out of your gum. Shit! I am so screwed now. I'm going to fail this exam."

She found a piece of gauze and pressed it hard on the injury.

"OW, Andie! Hat hucking hurts!"

"Shut up!" she said through clenched teeth. "Shut up and stop bleeding!"

I looked up into her frantic face and for a moment she stared at me. Then I watched as her eyes softened. A smile appeared and she began to chuckle.

"I'm sorry, Dale. I guess I'm a bit anxious about this part. When she comes to check my work, try not to open your mouth too wide. Maybe she won't notice the tissue damage."

And so it went. The teacher checked Andra's work and didn't notice the bleeding. Andie passed with flying colours. She's happy. I'm happy too, because I don't have to return for six months.

By then, my friend will have more experience and less stress. Hopefully, next time she won't make me bleed at all!

***

What I Write - Why I Write

I've been pretty angry here lately, Ms J. I've been as mad as hell and for that, I make no apologies. You know why I write. I write to exorcise my demons, to dispel my gloom and to share my joy. I write about my Life and I write about how I feel about it. All of it. Mostly, anyway.

I'm a man. A human being. Sometimes, when I'm really upset, I act childish and angry. That's me. That's how I am sometimes. Sometimes I behave like a three-year-old. Sometimes, I feel angry for a few days before it filters through my consciousness. Writing helps expedite this process. I don't write to be chastised, to be scolded or berated. I don't need to be reminded how to act. I'll get things sorted out on my own. I always have, Ms J, and I always will.

***