A Kind of Acceptance

Anvilcloud's right, I suppose. This is just another test for me. It's another test to see if I can do the right thing. I know what's right, Ms J. I always know what's right. Doing it ... well, that's a different story.

I'll train Kirk if he asks me. He'll get trained eventually anyway. If not by me, then by someone else. Hell, if they have to, Bombardier will solicit retired railway engineers to come back and train these guys. An extra pay cheque on top of your pension. Who'd refuse that?

The bottom line is this: The jobs are closed to CN railroaders. We've lost the contract to operate these commuter trains. They were good jobs, Ms J. They were fantastic jobs. I bought a house here in Mimico thinking I'd retire from those jobs.

But sometimes, things don't work out the way I plan. Sometimes, my Life is not entirely mine. Sometimes, I'm left feeling weak and powerless and frightened about the future.

These are the times when I can take heart in the good things in my Life. Friends. Family. Colleen. My church.

I'm going to see Dan and Sarah on Sunday. I hope to see Meagan there too. And tonight, Ms J, I'll put my arms around Colleen and draw her close and know that I am loved.

I am safe. All will be well.

Have faith.

***

Dilemma

I have a friend, Ms J, a dear friend who works for Bombardier. He's been kind to me over the years and I enjoy spending time with him and his lovely wife. I haven't discussed this with him yet, but I'm sure he has been offered one of the engineer positions and is, or soon will be, taking classroom training.

Here's my quandary:

I have decided not to train these people when they begin to learn how to actually operate a train. I don't have to agree to train anyone, and I sure as heck don't want to train someone so he can take my job.

But this man is my friend. He is excited about his future. He's looking forward to better working conditions, better hours, and a lot more money as an engineer. I'm pleased for him, Ms J. Really I am.

But while we railroaders contemplate an uncertain future, he'll be among the people who will have our jobs.

What shall I do if he appears on my locomotive one day? Do I make an exception and train him?

I think I'll visit him one day soon and discuss my feelings with him.

I hate the bastards who've done this to us. I hate my employer for declining to bid on the contract. But I love my friend and want what's best for him.

Do I want what's best for him, Ms Journal, even if it's not what's best for me?

***

2073 Days to Go

I picked up Colleen's daughter after school recently. She attends an after school daycare which is right next door to her school here in Mimico. I was feeling fine, relaxed, enjoying the last few days of my vacation, and looking forward to spending some time with Ivy. As I approached the door to the school, I noticed a bright yellow sign on the window.

Bombardier Classes – Room 10

My good mood evaporated instantly. Bombardier is the company responsible for maintaining GO’s fleet of coaches and locomotives, and is now the company that won the contract to operate our commuter trains. They’re the people who’ll be taking my job away next summer. Actually, they'll be replacing about 130 people, coworkers and friends. I tore the sign off the window, wrinkled it up and tossed it in the parking lot. Then I opened the door and walked down the hall to Room 10.

I stood for a moment in the doorway and looked at the faces looking back at me. I felt anger and bitterness toward each one. And a deep sense of betrayal both by my employer, and by GO Transit. How could this have happened, Ms J? How could a business partnership that has existed for forty years be suddenly dissolved? And what manner of insanity would replace experienced railroaders with train mechanics?

I looked at the study material piled on a table near the teacher’s desk. Railroad manuals. Training material. Operating Rules. Passenger evacuation procedures. Radio regulations. All the stuff these grease monkeys will have to know in order to operate trains.

Grease monkeys.

Next summer, they’ll be locomotive engineers. It took me seven weeks of intensive classroom and simulator training, followed by a year of on the job training. And all this after about eight years of railroad experience.

But these ... these GREASE MONKEYS will be qualified in six months! That’s the plan, Ms J.

Angry? Nooooo, not me.

***

Jane

Her name is Jane, Ms J. That's the woman who owes me $5000. $4810, actually, but who's counting?

I am, of course. I loaned her the money last April. It was April 20. She said she needed the money to pay for some home repairs and to prepare the house for a quick sale. She promised to repay it "as soon as the house sells." She gave her word, and as her friend, that guarantee was quite sufficient. Besides, it was a lovely home in a nice location. I felt certain it would sell quickly.

Three months later, it sold, but for less than the asking price. Much less. In fact, Jane still owed the bank $7000 after the sale was complete.

I gave that money in good faith, Ms J. I offered a short term, interest free loan to a friend. I didn't know the mortgage was in arrears then, or that the bank had threatened foreclosure. I had no idea Jane's financial situation was so dire. I didn't know she had outstanding student loans and credit card debts. Indeed, she had recently bought a new truck. I didn't know Jane was so utterly irresponsible with her money.

In July, I visited her and she signed an IOU promising formally to repay the money. It was witnessed by Jenn, her "wife". (Yeah, Ms J, she is.) Despite this short-lived glimmer of hope, I have recovered only $190. of the total amount.

Yesterday, I sent her a gentle reminder.

"Hi Jane. It's been 5 weeks since your last deposit. I could sure use some help about now."

Here's her response:

"I don't want this to come across rude. I was laid off two weeks ago. My cats are eating dog food. I had to borrow money from jen for gas. I'm waiting for a notice of eviction cause I couldn't make my rent payment arrangements. I have 2 dollars in my bank account. So I understand your frustration. I can do $20 next Friday."

You know what, Ms Journal? I don't care. I don't give a shit about the problems resulting from Jane's inability to manage her finances. And as for her current state of unemployment, I think it's more a matter of sloth than circumstance. Jane is an apprentice carpenter, and while new home construction does experience a lull in winter, commercial projects continue year round. If she'd borrowed that money from a bank, she'd have to pay it back. She'd have been making (or perhaps missing) payments for seven months now.

Twenty dollars, Ms J. She's offered me twenty dollars. That's the price of a shirt. Or a restaurant meal. Less than half a tank of gasoline. It's a pittance, but at least she's trying. Or has promised (again) to try.

Colleen read Jane's excuses last night and urged legal action.

"Take it to Small Claims Court," she said. "She'll never pay you back unless she's forced to."

My head tells me Colleen's right. But my heart says be patient.

I wish my head and my heart could agree on something.

Anything.

Sometime.

***

Getting Behind

I'm really sorry, Ms J. I haven't been very ... um, I haven't er ...

Shit. I guess I've been so busy with Life lately, I haven't bothered to find the time to write about it. Honestly, I just haven't had much free time and when I'm alone here at home, I don't feel like writing. There's just so much going on around me at the moment and each experience is worthy of its own blog post:

I'm loving Colleen. That's still going well. Really well, thank you. We had a wonderful time in Montreal last weekend. We toured the city, rode the subway, climbed Mt. Royal, and ate like royalty. We visited Old Montreal for some authentic French cuisine and then enjoyed a moonlight ride in a horse drawn "calèche" on centuries-old cobblestone roads. It was, as Meagan would say, Fabtastic!

(Click on the pics to make 'em big)



Here we are on Mount Royal. From there, the entire city lay sprawled out before us. And the magnificent St. Lawrence River flowed by on its way from the Great Lakes to the Atlantic Ocean.



We found a large building at the top. It had been built many years ago and held a massive open space behind it's leaded glass windows. I suppose it's used today for performances and other more formal gatherings. The floor was marble and the roof was made of great wooden timbers cut, I suppose, from local trees. We bought some hot chocolate and pulled two chairs up to the window. There, we chatted and watched the squirrels play on the huge patio area outside. It felt as though Colleen and I were the only two people in the world. For me, that was the best part of the entire weekend.



This is a photo of the Cathedral Notre Dame. It's the most beautiful church in all of Montreal, and quite possibly in all of Canada. A visit to this church ranked high on our list of things to do in Montreal. So we did. We went there and opened the massive wooden door and entered the house of the Lord. We were awestruck by its opulence. Of course, we did not take photos in the sanctuary, Ms Journal. It is a place of worship, a sacred space. I took Colleen's hand and lead her toward the aisle.

"Let's approach the altar," I said. "Let's go to the front and sit quietly for a few minutes and offer a prayer in God's house."

There were, perhaps, thirty or forty people quietly milling about and as we started toward the aisle, a woman stopped us.

"Are you here for the Mass?" she asked.

We told her no, we wanted only to spend a moment in peaceful prayer.

"Then you'll have to stay back here. That's only for people who're attending Mass. It starts in half an hour."

I tried again to explain that we only wanted to spend a moment in prayer and that we'd be gone long before the service began, but she was intractable.

"No. Sorry. If you're not here for Mass, you're not allowed in. You have to stand back here."

For me, Ms J, this was the worst part of the trip. I was disappointed, and yes, angry. This is precisely the kind of exclusivity, the kind of smug superiority that keeps people away from Christian churches. This is NOT what Christ taught. I know it was a horrible thing to think, blasphemous even, but do you know what was on the tip of my tongue as we left that place? Then you can take your church and shove it up your arse.

I'm still angry. I could tell more tales of people being rejected by the Catholic church, but that's explosive stuff, Ms J. Maybe one day I'll tell you more about it, but right now I'd like to keep the mood of this post light and enjoyable.

Hey guess what else? I got my new car! Picked it up last Tuesday. The 13th. It's a 2008 Mazda 3. I absolutely LOVE it! Four doors. Automatic transmission. Power windows and door locks. Fancy stereo that connects to my iPod. It's even got heated seats, for goodness sake! I never much cared for that old Honda I had. Buying it was a hasty decision and one made without the benefit of a friend to guide me. I won't make that mistake again. Thanks, Bobby! Incidentally, the salesman was a complete twit. Neither of us liked him. He was vulgar and desperate. He was transparent and tenacious.

"Get me some referrals," he said too many times. "Tell the guys at work about the great deal you got here. Tell Colleen."

Actually Doug, I'll recommend the car, but not the salesman.





What else can I tell you?

Oh, I spoke with Meagan the other day. I texted Dan from Montreal to see how he was doing. He told me Meagan was visiting for the weekend.

"Meagan?" I typed. "My little Scout? I'm going to call you now, Dan. Hang on."

And so I called my boy from the hotel room. We talked a bit about his job - He's still working at a factory in Georgetown, and he still likes it. Sarah's fine. Still going to school.

Talking with young people is like pulling teeth sometimes. It's hard to get much information from them.

"How do you like living on a farm, Scout?"

"It's OK, I guess."

"How's school? Have you made any friends?"

"Not really."

"How's baby David these days?"

"He's good."

"I've missed you, Meagan. I think about you all the time."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. I worry about you sometimes."

"I'm FINE, Dad. Don't worry."

But I do worry, Ms J. I have and I do and I shall. Meagan told me it was lonely out there in the middle of nowhere, but she seems to have accepted it. She visits her friends in Georgetown on weekends. She didn't explain how she got from the farm to G-town, though, and I didn't ask. It's about a ninety minute drive each way.

"When can I see you?" I asked.

"Well, I'm pretty busy these days ..."

"Surely you can find an hour or two to visit with your ever-loving father," I said. "I would like to see you, Scout. And I'd like to see where you live."

I hope never to see her brain dead mother again, Ms J, but I didn't mention that.

"Give me a call near the end of the month," she said. "Maybe we can get together on a Sunday or something. Yeah. We could spend Sunday together and then you could drive me home or something."

"You could come and live with me, Meagan. That might be a good idea. You'd be closer to Georgetown."

"I can't leave Mum. You know that. We've discussed this before, Dad."

"Yeah. I know. But I had to ask. Again."

"Call me later, OK? We'll make some plans then."

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

"I love you to the moon and back too, Daddy."

"Bye."

"Bye."

The call cost $21.00. It was the best $21 I ever spent.

I'm getting tired of writing, Ms J. Are you tired of reading?

I reckon that's about it, then, for now.

Salut!

***

"We Care and Remember"

Hi Ms J. Sorry I haven't written lately. I've been feeling like crap with a cold and just not really that interested in ... What? The trip? What tr..? Oh! THAT trip. Yeah, it was good. Brilliant, actually. I took a few photos. Pat took hundreds.

Yeah, we had a really nice time. My brother went too. Mum and Dad and Pat and I. We stayed at a posh hotel in downtown Ottawa.



The Lord Elgin. It was lovely. Marble floor in the lobby. Fresh flowers. Very comfortable accommodations. Very civilized. Our room had two queen size beds: one for Mum and Dad, and the other for my brother and me. It had been a long time since Pat and I last slept together, Ms J. Forty years or so, I guess. It felt a bit awkward, but what the hell. A man can tolerate nearly anything for three nights.

The last night, I was feeling more comfortable, I guess, and I remember reaching over in the warmth under the sheets and gently rubbing what I thought was Colleen's thigh. The rough hair under my palm woke me with a start and I quickly rolled over and pretended to snore. I don't think Pat even noticed it, for he had no silly remark to make in the morning.


Here's Mum and Dad making sure Dad's war medals were arranged properly. He looked quite handsome. And proud.


On Saturday, we visited the Canadian War Museum. Meagan and I had been there before. Last March. Remember? She'd said, "You should bring Granddad here sometime, Dad. This is his museum." So I did. I brought my dear ol' dad to the war museum. And he loved it. I knew he would. He wore his Legion blazer with his service medals and we had free admission. Saved us about eighty bucks. Free admission to veterans and three guests. Nice, eh?

The museum is massive with displays telling the story of every conflict in which Canada's been involved since ... well, since before Canada was Canada. I think the first display depicted a pair of Indians throwing rocks at each other. Yes, I know they're called Aboriginals, or First Nations people, Ms J, but they'll always be Indians to me. Dad calls 'em In-dins. Whatever. There was a lot to see in that museum. We made it as far as the liberation of The Netherlands in WW2 before the museum closed for the day. We'd been there nearly six hours, but decided to return again on Sunday after the Remembrance Day ceremony.




We rented a wheelchair for Dad. His old legs don't carry him far before they tire.

Remembrance Day, indeed Remembrance Week, is a time to remember the sacrifices made for us by soldiers, men and women, in the name of freedom. Canada came of age in World War One, where we showed the world that we could fight along with the best. The battle for Vimy Ridge in France was a decisive and significant Canadian victory. The Brits tried but couldn't win it. Neither could the Yanks. But Canada's soldiers somehow captured the ridge against overwhelming odds and helped turn the tide in favour of the Allies. Every army suffered innumerable casualties.

Dad's war was World War Two. He was a boy, not yet twenty, when he went overseas. He was a driver/mechanic in the Royal Canadian Corps of Signals. The truck he drove carried a wireless radio set and aerial. Signalmen travelled with him to send and receive coded telegraph messages. He went over a boy and returned a man.

Dad never expected it, but he was somewhat of a celebrity in Ottawa last weekend. As a veteran of World War Two, he was given special treatment. We were seated up front quite close to the Canadian War Memorial where dignitaries placed wreaths on little metal stands. We were so close to the Prime Minister, I could have spit on him. I considered it.



A police officer was behind us dressed for the occasion in the bright scarlet tunic of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and I asked her if she'd pose for a photo with me. She did and we chatted a little. I pointed across the square to a distant rooftop where two men stood with a tripod.

"Those guys up there," I asked, "Are they camera men?"

"What guys?" she said.

"Those guys. Over there. On the roof. Are they CBC camera guys?"

"No," she said. "They're ours. They're RCMP. Snipers."

I thought she was joking, Ms J.

"Yeah," I said. "Right."

But the Corporal was not smiling. She was serious.

"I'm not joking," she said, her face grave. "They're police sharpshooters. A spotter and a marksman. They're watching the crowd for suspicious behaviour. This would be a prime opportunity for an attempt to assassinate the Prime Minister or Governor General."

I was shocked, Ms Journal. Shocked and saddened. And disgusted.

"Holy ffff...."

I didn't say it. I wanted to but I didn't say it. I looked at Pat and he was incredulous. We both were. This country's getting more American every day, God help us.

After the ceremony was over, we waited a while for the crowd to disperse. It was estimated there were thirty thousand there. And we were right up front with the camera guys and the politicians and the withered, old veterans. Dad really felt special.



Many people stopped to shake Dad's hand and say thank you. Many people. Dad seemed a bit embarrassed by the attention. He was especially moved, though, by a little girl who offered him a small slip of paper. She and her daddy approached and the girl removed a small piece of paper from a stack she held. She'd made up a dozen or more of them at school perhaps, and she passed a pink note to Dad.

"Thank you very much," he said as he took the note.

The girl smiled shyly and pulled her father off into the crowd again. Dad read the note and his eyes filled.

"WE REMEMBER AND CARE" is all it said. It was written in red marker in the hand of a small child. It was signed on the back. "From Katrina 2007"

That's all we can hope for, isn't it? We hope to be remembered. We hope future generations will care.

I love my dad, Ms Journal. I felt so proud of him many times that weekend. So very, very proud to be his son.

But I'm feeling a bit emotional right now so I'll say good-bye. Maybe I'll write more about our Ottawa trip another day.

Colleen and I are off to Montreal on Friday evening. We'll spend a romantic weekend there and I'll tell you about it next week.

***

Remembrance Day

I'm off to Ottawa tomorrow, Ms J, to attend Remembrance Day ceremonies in our nation's capital. Remembrance Day is on Sunday, November 11th. I thought maybe Dad might like to attend the nationally televised event, and when I asked him, he accepted the invitation immediately. Mum, of course, asked to come along too, for who can better care for her man than she herself? Brother Pat also accepted an invitation.

So tomorrow morning, we'll board a GO train here in Mimico and travel to Toronto's great Union Station to catch the VIA train that will carry the four of us to Ottawa. We plan to do some sightseeing as well: Dad wants to visit the new Canadian War Museum and we hope to go to the National Library building and see if we can find Dad's book.

All Aboard, Ms J. En Voiture, as they say in French.

See you next week!

(Oh, and I forgot to tell you .... I'm getting my new car on Tuesday.) Yippee!!!

***

Adventures With Ivy

I collected Colleen's daughter after school today and the two of us went to a park down by the lake. It was a brilliant afternoon, albeit cold and windy. We found rocks to throw and trees to climb. We explored the rocks on the shore and examined the pretty ones. I chased seven-year-old Ivy and she ran from me laughing while the ducks quacked their disapproval. Geese honked overhead and spread their wings to descend into the cold water. Pretty leaves littered the grass. Adventure was everywhere. As I watched the little girl playing, I found myself thinking of my Meagan.

We used to play in that park, she and I. We played in lots of parks. We enjoyed wonderful adventures together. "Together" is the key word. Meagan was content simply to be with me, her father. She walked by my side and we chatted and laughed together. Often we held hands and strolled in silence, feeling the peace of the moment. Two hands joined at the heart. I couldn’t have imagined then that those days would ever end. And I suppose I went to the park today with Ivy, hoping to recreate some of those happy moments.

But it was not as I’d hoped, Ms J. Ivy did not walk by my side. We did not hold hands. She raced ahead of me, turning back from time to time to admonish me for being such a slow poke. I hadn’t the energy to run to keep up with her and I let her lead me on a merry chase among the trees and over the grassy hills and along the paved pathways.

Two or three times I caught myself calling her Meagan. And once, by accident, she called me Daddy. But it was not 1999. And Ivy is not Meagan.

I don’t want to get older, Ms J. I want to stop time right now before things become unrecognizable.

***

November? Already?

It’s November already. Where has autumn gone? It’s November now, Ms J. The days are getting cooler. And noticeably shorter. The sun shone this morning, though. The trees are resplendent in their fall colours. Soon they’ll be bare and left to shiver in winter’s bitter winds.

Christmas is lurking round the corner, and soon thereafter the silt of another year will have been carried off in the ceaseless current of time. Dad said it best on the last page of his memoirs:

Life is like a roll of toilet paper. The nearer the end, the faster it goes.

- Wilfred Pringle – “As I Recall: The Life I Lived”

***

Morley and Me

I worked a GO train yesterday. Morley was the brakeman. There’s only one hogger anymore on GO trains, Ms J, and so the company has ordered the brakeman to ride with the hogger as a second pair of eyes. For safety, you know. Safety. Pfff. Anyway, Morley and I struck up a conversation on the locomotive as we made our way to Oshawa from Union Station.

We were talking about the way things used to be and I told Morley about Dad’s book. Ten years ago, Dad wrote his memoirs. I helped him put his story into a book which we printed. We made twenty copies and Dad shared his book with family and treasured friends. There’s a copy in Ottawa on file with the National Archives. Morley was quite fascinated with the book and in the man who’d lived such an interesting Life.

“Who was your dad?” he asked. “Was he famous or something?”

It bothered me a bit to hear him refer to Dad in the past tense. He is still alive, after all. I offered him the correction and told him no, my dad’s not famous. He’s just my dad.

“I think he’s the most interesting guy in the world,” I said. “But that’s because he’s my dad.”

I glanced over at Morley and he was smiling. I knew he understood completely and so I added, “And I love him.”

“You’re lucky to still have him,” said Morley. “My dad died in 1989. Cancer and a heart attack. He was sixty-nine. How old is your dad?”

We passed under a bridge just then and the roar of the locomotive made conversation difficult. I waited til we emerged into the sunshine again before I spoke.

“Eighty-five.”

Morley nodded and in the easy lull that followed, I wondered how it felt for him after eighteen years. Did he still think of his dad? Still miss him? Does the sadness ever go away?

I rang the bell for a crossing and watched as a car driver hurried to beat the gates.

“Did he know you hired on the railroad?” I asked.

“Oh God, yeah. He was so proud of me when I ...”

His voice trailed off then and I looked over at him. Morley raised his hand and waved me off. His cheeks were wet with tears.

I looked away and back to the track ahead of us. I knew the answer to my unspoken question. It doesn’t get better, Ms J. It just keeps hurting, I think. Tears filled my eyes and I wiped them away before they stained my cheeks. Morley didn’t know it perhaps, but we cried together like a pair of women – he for his beloved father, lost now to death, and I for my father, not yet gone but still adored.

Strange things happen sometimes when men are alone and feeling safe. Strange and utterly beautiful things happen, Ms J, when men are not afraid to be human.

***

The Man In The Mirror

There's a new face in the mirror, lately. The cocky young man is gone, Ms Journal, and he's taken his hair and his collagen with him. The man who watched me shave this morning has white whiskers. And the little hair he has left on his head is mostly grey. Ironically, this old guy has hair growing now where hair has no business growing - on the inside and on the outside of his ears and nose. And his eyebrows ... well, don't even get me started about the eyebrows!

It's happened, Ms J. I never thought it ever would, or could, but it's happened. I've grown old. Older. That's what we say, isn't it? He's an older man. She's an older woman. We age in stages, it seems. Children long to grow up. And they do. As adults, we grow older. That's where I am. Older. I'm an older man. Finally, we grow old. That's the final stage, isn't it? That's the last chapter. The Twilight Years. That's where Dad is. He's 85. "More yesterdays than tomorrows," he says.

It's turning out to be a bit of a difficult thing to accept, this older me. Bald head, wrinkles, saggy skin. I don't much fancy this new me. I'm not as attractive as I once was, if ever I was. Attractive, that is.

There is an upside to it, though. Things have improved in the bedroom, Ms J, if you get my drift. I feel like a real Valentino between the sheets. It's good for my ego. And Colleen smiles. A lot. 'Nuff said.

I thought of all this as I watched my facial contortions in the mirror this morning as I shaved. I scraped the last bit of white lather off my throat and swished the razor in the water in the basin. Then I looked at myself and blinked and sighed and nodded my head slightly.

Two of my friends are celebrating fiftieth birthdays this month. I'll reach that milestone myself next summer. That's what it is, Ms J. A milestone. I hope I'll see it that way, and not as a mill stone. The wisest people are the ones who can accept each year as it comes and laugh at themselves along the way. Happy are those who look forward to a long and healthy Life regardless of their age.

It was nearly seven years ago when my brother celebrated his fiftieth birthday. After dinner, he stood and addressed the small crowd of family and well-wishers.

"Well, I'm fifty years old today," he said, "and I reckon I've lived about a third of my Life ..."

What a great attitude Pat has! He's always been my idol. I'd do well to adopt that same wonderful sense of humour about aging.

Colleen is thirty-four. Yeah, I know. I'm a cradle robber, Ms J. But the girl is smitten. She's "twitterpated" like Thumper's springtime birds in the movie "Bambi." Colleen does not see an old codger when she looks at me. She sees someone kind and gentle. She sees a gentleman who opens doors for her, and who asks 'How can I help?'

Colleen doesn't care at all about my age. She loves me. She simply loves me.

And if I can continue to love myself even half as much, there may still be hope for this old older mature gentle man.

***