The Hamam in Safronbolu

I hesitate to write this article. Safronbolu is one of the most charming towns in the world and it was known by few until recently. A recent Blue Planet television program exposed it to millions, so I imagine that many more are putting it on their itinerary. I would prefer that it be kept a secret.

When we were there in 1999, two Australians were the only other tourists in town. We stayed in a hotel where the air conditioning in the main room was a big pool of cool water.

The old part of Safronbolu is a small town with narrow streets nestled in a valley. In fact, its name means saffron valley.

It used to be on the silk trade routes years ago, and being there was being transported back in time to a gentle, relaxed pace.

The focal point of the town seemed to be the local hamam, a centuries-old Turkish bath.

When we were there, for about six dollars you could feel like a million. This was price of the full treatment consisting of the bath, a shampoo, a defoliation of skin and a massage.

Turkish baths are sort of like saunas, but wetter. You sit on a hot marble slab and sweat all of the impurities out of you. There is a section for men and another for women.

The most interesting part of the experience of my purification was the people who worked there. They were a husband and wife team who looked after their section of the hamam. Both were deaf mutes.

After about 45 minutes being baked on a marble griddle, I emerged into a cooler room and reclined onto a marble table for my massage. As I lay on my tummy, muscular hands grabbed at my muscles. The were sensitive at first and I let out a yelp. Then I realized that the man in charge probably couldn’t hear me or see my painful face. I’m sure he felt the sound in his hands and he could see me writhing like a snake. I turned my head and he made a motion with his hands that this pain was good. As he worked all of the knots out, his prediction came true. I emerged from the bath totally relaxed.

As I walked through the door with my tormenter, he saw his wife in front of the women’s section. Then I saw it. Unable to speak with their mouths or hear, he gave her a glance that gently shouted his affection for her. It was returned with the same intensity. You could see the love that passed between them.

I have fond memories of Safranbolu, but it is strange that my strongest is of a couple’s glance at each other, a communication that was much more powerful than the words anyone could speak. And it took two people who couldn't speak to show me that.

The Bike

Every kid has this dream. They go to the sporting goods store and they see it. It’s the bicycle of their dreams. I am no different. When I was young, I, too, saw the bike I wanted. It was at Dobby’s Sporting Goods at Finch and Yonge in Willowdale.

Oh, how I wanted that bike. It was so shiny and beautiful. Every time I passed the window, I would look in to see if it was gone. I imagined all of the adventures I would have pedalling it everywhere. We would race around my world, as I knew it, up and down steep hills with the wind rushing into my face and through my hair. Of course, my bike would be the best, faster than the others. I would ride it forever.

I could feel it, hold it, and I would say taste it, but I’m not sure if that image works well with a bike.

The fairytale ending to this story, at least the television version of it, is that the father of the boy goes into the store the night before Christmas and buys the bike for his son. The next morning the lad comes bounding down the staircase and stops dead in the tracks when he sees the shiny, new bike under the tree.

Guess what? It never happened to me, YET! As I said in another story, my actual bike was made from the parts of about three others. It got me where I needed to go. It wasn’t that fast. It had only one speed.

That doesn’t mean that I have given up my dream. I still want that bike in the window. There is still a part of the little boy left in me that believes that fairytales can come true. There is still a part of me that expects one morning to come down the staircase and find that shiny new bike and know that it is mine to keep forever.

It reminds me of the song Young at Heart, my favourite version done by Jimmy Durante.

Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you
If you're young at heart
For it's hard, you will find, to be narrow of mind
If you're young at heart

You can go to extremes with impossible schemes
You can laugh when your dreams fall apart at the seams
And life gets more exciting with each passing day
And love is either in your heart or on its way

Don't you know that it's worth every treasure on Earth
To be young at heart
For as rich as you are it's much better by far
To be young at heart
And if you should survive to 105
Look at all you'll derive out of being alive
Then here is the best part
You have a head start
If you are among the very young at heart

The Pool Lesson

A few years ago, a friend of mine and I wrote a children’s book called Softball from A to Zoo. In it we had animals enjoying the sport. The drawings were marvellous, too.

One of my favourite pages was of an elephant holding the bat in his trunk. The elephant was asked why he wasn’t holding the bat in his hands. His reply was, “I can’t. My fingers aren’t long enough.”

I remember chuckling at this drawing and thinking of the Softball Canada clinicians who instructed how to line up your knuckles when gripping a bat and how it was essential to do so.

You know what? For every rule, there are exceptions.

It reminds me of a story John Smyth told me. He was giving a lesson to a gentleman in the art of playing pool. His student was pretty good, but John pointed out that he would be much better if he bent his knees slightly. The man replied, “I can’t.” John said relaxing a bit would help him bend his knees. Again, the man replied, “I can’t.” John countered, “Of course you can.” The man was insistent that he couldn’t. John took it upon himself to help the man by taking his own hands and helping him bend his knees. As John touched the man’s legs to bend the knees, it all became apparent. The man had artificial legs and it was impossible to bend his knees.

Yes, there are those who do not reach their potential because they don’t apply the principles to succeed. However, there are those who do in spite of what we think. For some reason, we apply our standard of success to their life. We say things like, “If he would only do this or that he would be so much better.” Who are we to judge the standard others should reach? Personally, I have enough of a time reaching my own goals.

A Song for Prishtina

I visited Prishtina, often spelled Pristina, in Kosovo in 2001. Like many of my travels, I was moved by what I saw and the people I met. I mentioned to Spresha, whose name means hope in Albanian, that I wrote poetry from time to time. She got me to promise to write one about my experience in Kosovo. Here it is. It is called:

A Song for Prishtina
Though you’ve spoken,
I really can’t feel your pain.
Though I’ve spoken,
I feel I have to say it again.
Though you’ve told me,
I’ll never really understand.
Though I’ve told you,
I need to give a helping hand.
When I’m near you,
I don’t know what to do.
All I can say,
Is that I’ll never forget you.

I wish you freedom -
Freedom to laugh and cry.
I wish you freedom -
The freedom to question why.
Yes, the freedom
To love the way you want to live.
And most of all,
The freedom to forgive.
Truly freedom
Is worth the price you pay.
And your freedom,
May it grow day by day

My First Meal at a Restaurant

When I was young, eight children in our home meant that we didn’t get invited out to dinner. It also meant that we couldn’t afford to go to a restaurant.

Some of the things kids take for granted now were foreign to me. I never had a piece of pizza until I was about 18. I was about 12 when I had my first jelly-filled donut.

Don’t get the crying towel out just yet. We didn’t lack in food. It was just homemade, that’s all, and there was plenty of it for all. And we had to eat it all up. If we didn’t, we would get the lecture about all the poor children in China.

The closest we got to a restaurant was going to the cafeteria in Eaton’s annex on Queen Street when we were buying our back-to-school clothes in August.

When I was 16, I got my first summer job. With my first paycheque, I told my mom not to bother to make supper. We were going out for Chinese food.

Even though the menu was in English, it might have well been in Mandarin. We really didn’t know what anything was, and, as we found out, we had no idea of the sizes of the portions. We ordered different things for each of us.

The food was scrumptious. My mother really enjoyed eating something that she didn’t have to cook. There was only one problem. We couldn’t eat it all.

The waiters made it worse by continually filling our water glasses, which we gulped down. The result was rice swelling like a helium balloon in our stomachs.

Well into the meal, we valiantly tried to shove food down our gullets. We sort of know what the geese that are force-fed to make pâté feel like. It was not pleasant, but my mother and I were determined to finish everything. I even said to my mom, “We have to eat all of this. Think of all the poor children in China.”

As our eyes turned into saucers, my mother finally gave up. She could eat no more, nor could I. By this time the waiters were smiling and still giving us more water. It was almost as if they were seeing if we could explode. Unfortunately, not one of them told us that we could take the food home in a doggie bag. We certainly didn’t know that the option was available. A good portion of the meal was left on the plates.

As I look back, I don’t know why the waiters hadn’t suggested that we could take the leftovers home. Actually, it was poor service on their part and ignorance on ours. However, this ignorance created a bit of justice. While they didn’t help us in our dilemma, I didn’t know anything about tipping. I paid the bill and pocketed all of the change, right to the penny.

The Championship

In 1965, my softball team won its first Ontario championship. We almost didn’t even get past the first round.

We played our first series against another team in North York. It was supposed to be a best two out of three games. It actually went 5 games.

In the first four games, we had each won one. Another was called due to rain in the sixth inning with the score tied. The other was terminated, again in a tie score, in extra innings due to darkness.

The fifth game was just as close. They were the home team, which means they batted last. They were down one run in the bottom of the seventh, the final inning. They had runners on second and third with only one out. A fly ball would tie the game and a single would probably win it.

Up to bat came their best hitter. True to form, he hit a sharp line drive between the shortstop and the third baseman. In one stroke, it looked as is we were going to lose the game … except that our shortstop, Ally O’Quinn, speared the line drive somehow and ran over to third and touched the bag making the third out. Our greatest moment of peril was erased so suddenly. We had won the game.

Through the years, teams I played for won a few provincial championships. Each year there would be dramatic moments where a delicate thread held the balance of the season.

Life is the same way. There may be times when situations seem impossible. What I learned is that you play the best you can and accept the outcome, no matter what. However, you must not give up. Giving up only makes defeat certain. Staying in there and trying can potentially take you places you never dreamed of.

My First Weeks at Ryerson

When I graduated from high school, I had no idea what I wanted to be. Come to think of it, that hasn’t changed too much.

I remember going to my guidance councillor and having him ask me what my dreams were. One was playing baseball, but since I played softball, that didn’t seem an option. Next was becoming a farmer. I have no idea where that one came from, especially since I have allergies and had never been on a farm in my life. The third was a disc jockey. We couldn’t find any reason I couldn’t do that so I applied and was accepted into Ryerson Polytechnical Institute in the Radio and Television Arts program (RTA).

It was the end of the 60s. You could go to Yorkville and listen to Gordon Lightfoot and Joni Mitchell at cafés. You could go, but I couldn’t. I had no appreciation of what was happening around me. Until then, my world had been a patch of the earth of 4 square kilometres.

I remember the frosh picnic for Ryerson on Centre Island. I had been invited to go, but I declined. Who wanted to go to a free concert by a group called the Chicago Transit Authority, later to become Chicago? It had to be pretty lame with a hit called 25 to 6 to 4, right?

Today there are pretty high admission standards for this program. At that time it was first-come, first-served. I’m sure the students are very different than in my era. We had quite a cross-section of society.

I remember Robert, born in Germany, whose eyelids were like butterflies due to what I suspect was excessive drug use. Michelle from Quebec was a bona fide witch. Jan showed her feminine charms in buckskin, while her friend, Dale, showed hers always dressed in black. There was pretty well almost every other type of person who I had never encountered before. And then there was me.

The only thing I knew about college and university was from what I had seen in the Andy Hardy movies on television. Mickey Rooney, who portrayed Andy, always wore a shirt and a tie, so I figured that was what you did. Can you imagine my shock when I arrived the first day? I felt as if I had been dropped on another planet. What I didn’t feel was that I was very creative. How could I be? There were so many others that looked so artistic. Why had I made such a big mistake?

After two weeks of feeling totally lost, I was ready to quit. It’s not that people were not nice to me. They didn’t try to make me feel out of place. I was the one who made me feel out of place.

Fortunately, before I made my final decision, a teacher showed the class a film. It was called “There’s No Such Thing As Art (We Only Do Our Best)”. It was about a nun who taught art in Chicago. Hold it! This was a nun who inspired others to express themselves. Her choice of fashion was not very interesting. She looked pretty uninspiring on the outside. As I watched the film, I noticed the fire in her eyes. I heard the passion in her voice. It then dawned on me that what mattered was on the inside, not the outside.

It didn’t matter how long my hair was, and in those days some had it pretty long. It didn’t matter what I wore. Nothing mattered except searching inside my soul, finding something interesting and pulling it out for everyone to see. Some might find it beautiful, others might not. What mattered to me was that I was honest enough to find what was real and present it the best way I could.

Every one of us has gifts. They can be wrapped in many different ways. That doesn’t change what’s inside the box – the gift.

Miss Sinkins

There are those teachers who seem to be very popular with everyone. I don’t think Miss Sinkins was one of them. I really don’t care. What I do know is that she had a tremendous impact on my life.

She taught me English in grade 11. Up until that point, English was a struggle for me. We studied stories and learned grammar, but it was a chore. I never seemed to answer what the teachers were looking for on tests. My responses seemed reasonable to me.

I was a student who didn’t live in the attendance area of my school. At times I felt no connection with my past. I was also in the middle of puberty and all of the angst that brings. Life was pretty confusing.

What I loved about her is that she allowed me to be as weird as I wanted to be and still talked to me as someone who seemed to understand my spirit.

I particularly realized this when it came time to give speeches. We were allotted 10 minutes on any topic we chose. Mine was entitled “Why I Like Small Towns”. It was based on my experiences in Rosseau, Ontario.

Actually, it wasn’t really a speech. It was a performance. I talked to the audience and performed little skits with invisible people on stage.

My speech also went for about 40 minutes. She didn’t stop me. She let me continue until I was finished. She must have known that stopping me would have crushed me.

At the end, she asked me if I had ever read Stephen Leacock’s Sunshine Sketches of a Small Town, then she docked me some marks for going well over the time limit. I had never even heard of Stephen Leacock at this point, let alone read one of his books. It didn’t take me long to devour one of the great pieces of Canadian literature.

One day she came into class with a box and some cards. She wanted us to record every book we read. I was inspired. I was going to be the one who read the most books in our class. Miss Sinkins would be so proud of me.

Unfortunately, Karen was in my class. Karen really liked reading. It was like the difference between eating at a diner and an all-you-can-eat buffet. I dined on literature; Karen devoured it. I ended up with about 30 books by the end of the year, a distant second to Karen’s 60 or so.

Still, those 30 books put me on a life-changing path. Miss Sinkins was an encouragement all the way.

Ferne Sinkins, as I eventually discovered her first name to be, was invited to our high school reunion. She didn’t come. I had wanted to personally thank her for her patience and understanding of an awkward guy who was trying life on for size. And if any of you know her, let her know that Johnny V. appreciates what she did for him.

My Father’s Dreams

My father was not close to me, yet once in awhile I caught a glimpse of the man he was.

Like many Newfoundlanders, he came to Toronto in the 1930s looking for work. He got my mother pregnant and did the honourable thing and married her.

Being the depression, he tried his hand at many things. He rummaged through the garbage looking for something he could sell. A painting he found hangs in my living room. He would get old bicycles and reassemble the good parts to make a new one. In fact, my first bicycle in the 1950s was one of these creations. He did what he could. As child after child entered our household, the task became greater.

In the 1940s, his hammertoe prevented him from entering the army. He ended up spray-painting airplanes at DeHaviland. He was a spraypainter for the rest of his life.

Although I don’t know for sure, somewhere along the way I feel he lost his dreams. I got a clue in the days leading up to Christmas.

Our home was always made happy by Christmas. By the sheer numbers of children in our family, there was excitement. Mom always made sure there was plenty of baking done for the season. She kept her cookies and cakes in a cupboard halfway down the basement stairs.

Finding it difficult to resist temptation, I often went down to pilfer a cookie or two, being careful to make sure the top layer was level so it would look normal. I remember once seeing an envelope at the side of the cupboard. I took it out and looked inside. It contained sketches of scenery. I thought they were very good.

I left them there until after Christmas Day. I didn’t want my mom to know I was sneaking around the cupboard. I then asked her what they were. “Oh, they are some drawings your father did,” she said. It was one of the few times I saw pride in her eyes about the man she had married.

Why my father hadn’t kept at it is anyone’s guess. All I know was that he hadn’t. I wish that I could have encouraged him to start drawing again. As I said, though, we weren’t that close. I often wondered what caused him to stop. Somewhere along the way, he lost his spirit; he lost his way.

Viv and Alan

Both were blind. Viv had been blind since she was eight. Alan was a former truck driver with diabetes who had one drink to many. He woke up one morning totally blind. They were my friends when I lived in Edmonton. I say were, because somehow time and not keeping in touch removed them from me. I have tried to locate them, but without success.

They were an amazing couple. I first met Vivian through my church. She was single at the time, but I used to pick her up and drive her to various activities. We became friends.

I remember soon after I met her I asked her if she had any idea of what I looked like. She said that all she saw was a blur. I took her hands and placed them on my face. She thought I was pretty good looking. That certainly pleased me.

After a few months, she met Alan at a CNIB event. They became very interested in each other. Alan provided the male companionship that she craved. Vivian seemed to help Alan cope with his new blindness. She was so sensitive to his needs. When it came time to get guide dogs, she made sure he was the first to get one so he could be closer to her in abilities. Being blind for so long, Vivian was a lot more independent than Alan.

They certainly were ambitious people. They didn’t expect a handout from anybody. Their home was always spotless.

To make ends meet Alan decided to sell Amway. He did rather well, but what he sold the most was laundry detergent. He would put ink on a piece of cloth, put it in a container with the soap and shake it. After a few seconds he would pull it out of the canister spotless and say, “See, the stain is removed.” With faith like that in the product, you had to buy it.

When I moved to Ottawa, we decided to get together for Christmas. I picked them up at the airport on Christmas Eve. It was so good to see Vivian, Alan and his guide dog, Mitzi.

When we got back to my house, we decorated the tree together, including stringing popcorn. We found out the next morning that Mitzi adored it. The lower strands on the tree had been eaten.

I found out something very special the next morning about how independent Vivian really was. Since we had stayed up well into the night catching up on old times, I slept in the next morning. I awoke to the smell of … could it be? … warm tea biscuits. How? Who? I strolled into the kitchen and found Vivian just taking them out of the oven.

I was totally impressed. Vivian had never been in my house before, yet she was able to find all of the ingredients, all of the bowls and utensils and was able to operate the oven without sight.

One day I hope we will somehow meet again.

My Dreams

If I am going to dream, then I am going to dream big. There is no sense wasting my efforts on small ones.

I’m going to have so many dreams they would fill an ocean and still have some left over to make tea with.

My dreams are going to be in a gazillion colours, but that won’t be enough. I will invent a few new ones that have never been seen.

They are going to be so big that others will laugh at them and think them foolish. That doesn’t matter. When they laugh, I will make them even bigger and laugh right back.

If I am going to dream, then I am going to dream the impossible. Then when they happen, I know they will be true miracles, not just probabilities that passed my way.

Nothing or nobody will stop me from reaching for my dreams. I won’t try to take away theirs. I will not allow them to take away mine.

And I am going to BELIEVE that they will happen. It is this belief that some of my dreams will happen that will help life be interesting for me.

And I am going to BELIEVE that I will have the strength to help them happen.

Anything less than something that will get me on Oprah will not do. But not just one show, a whole week of them!

And when my dreams come true, I will thank God for giving them to me, then I will give them all away because the joy of just realizing that dreams do come true will be the true reward.

We need more dreamers in this world and I am going to be one of them. Care to join me? The way I figure it, if we do this together, we can really make this world better.

Patti’s Wisdom

A few years ago, I was on the organizing committee for the first-ever reunion of my high school’s graduating year. Patti, whom I barely knew at the time, proposed the idea and I said I would help. From the very beginning, it was a celebration of old memories mixed with catching up on the lives of others.

Five of us met for dinner in Willowdale for the first meeting. We laughed and talked about how graciously we had all aged. We also started discussions on how we would plan the best reunion ever.

Our graduating year was 1969, and we discussed the hotel we wanted. The capacity was about 225. That would be ample for the people who would be coming we felt. Our high school was a large one. The number in our graduating class was over 100. Everything was falling in to place perfectly.

Having worked with committees before, I stressed the need for agreement on how we would make decisions and the necessity of recording everything in detail in the minutes.

Everything was in place. Everything was perfect, that is until Karen, one of the committee members, made a decision without consulting the committee. One of her bosses, who graduated the year before us, got wind of the reunion and wanted to come, too. Karen decided to extend the invitation to those who graduated the year before us and the year after us.

What? How could she do this? Didn’t she understand that this might prevent some people from our graduating year from attending because the room only held 225?

I did what I felt I had to do. Out of principle, I quit the committee.

Then Patti called. Patti is one of the most dynamic persons I have ever met. She is logical and persuasive, two powerful traits.

She asked me if it was my goal to plan one of the best reunions ever. I told her it was. She asked me if I wanted to have a really great time at this reunion. I told her it was. Then she said, “Do you realize that you have just made a decision that will prevent you from reaching those goals? Yes, Karen did not follow the proper protocol. We can do nothing about that now, but the choice you have to make is whether you still want to be at your reunion, regardless of her bad decision.”

“But, but, but …,” I stammered, but the more I said but, the more I felt I was butting my head against a wall. Patti was right. I was letting my pride get in the way. The discussion was left with Patti telling me that the committee was meeting for Chinese food at a certain time on such and such a date. I was welcome to attend.

I tossed the decision in my mind like laundry in a dryer. The day came and I drove to the meeting.

When I entered the restaurant, the joy I saw on the committee members’ faces told me that I had made the right decision. The biggest smile of all was Karen’s. I'm sure she knew that she had slipped up when she broadened the invitation without committee consent. My being there confirmed in everyone’s mind, and especially mine, that there are more important things in life than following protocol. Friendship is not just about doing right. It is about doing right when a wrong has been done. We all slip up. None of us is perfect.

Our reunion was a tremendous success. People were celebrating their lives together and paying honour to those who were no longer with us. It couldn’t have been better. Just think, I almost let somebody else’s decision keep me from my goal.

P.S. My alter ego, Johnny V. was the disk jockey for the evening. I am told he did a great job. If you have a function, you can have him perform for you. The price is right. He is free. Just pay any expenses.

Who Am I?

I am the son of a spray painter and a homemaker who made ends meet by babysitting and working as a crossing guard. This has provided me with the ability to relate to the rich and the poor, because I have experienced both in my life. I can judge people on their character and not their income.

My mother bought our home, clothed and fed eight children with a measly allowance from her husband. This has taught me how to appreciate the role of women in society.

I only once received a birthday or Christmas gift from my father. I never received anything from my grandparents. Yet I loved them. I learned that love isn’t dependent on what you get. It is about what you give. If you give, wanting to receive, then you are really bartering. As a result, when somebody gives me something, I am usually really overjoyed.

I was never held, kissed or cuddled as a child. Like a dry leaf after a downpour, I have gradually lost my brittleness and passionately enjoy all of these now. I still am learning. Now, kisses, cuddling and being held hold a special meaning for me. They are like the first warm rays of sunshine after a cold winter.

We never had money to buy anything except the necessities. I never went to a real restaurant until I was 16 when I took my mom out with my first pay cheque for Chinese food. What an opportunity this was to invent activities that cost nothing, but were fun. I was also able to learn what things in life are necessary and what you can do without, if you wish. I was able to set my priorities on the important things.

I am the youngest of eight children. I know that people come in all shapes and sizes. We are different in many ways and that is the essence of what life is all about. It’s not loving people for the things you like about them, but also loving in spite of the things you don’t like about them.

I didn’t have a vehicle as a teenager and wasn’t into the dating scene. My Friday nights were spent going to the library and Saturday night reading the books. I had the pleasure of immersing myself in some of the great literature in the English language.

I realize that I could sit around and allow myself to believe that all of these were negative influences in my life, but they weren’t. They only would have been negative if they had no impact at all. I believe that every circumstance had a purpose.

Like dabs of paint on an impressionist painting, each person, circumstance and event has put a daub of paint on the canvas. Like an impressionist painting, if you get close, you can see each glob of colour and it doesn’t make sense sometimes. The true beauty is seen when you stand back at a distance, in my case a lifetime spent so far, and see how beautiful the whole picture is. Not all colours are vibrant and warm. There are some that are dark and mysterious. All combine together for an interesting picture.

The picture is not complete. That is the joy of living. You keep adding brushstrokes until the very end so people can say when all is said and done, “Wasn’t that a special life.”

A Gift for Your Best Enemy

Admit it! There are times when you feel obliged to give somebody a gift when you really don’t want to. They may have been a real pain, yet when they leave the company, the tradition is to give everybody something.

I have wondered if I could start a company to manufacture gifts for these people who have been a burr under your saddle a bit too long. Here are a couple I have come up with.

• How about a Find Waldo book? The only difference with my version will be that Waldo will not appear on any page. They will spend hours looking for someone who doesn’t exist.
• Another is giving somebody one of those 3D art objects. They are the ones that look like nothing until you blur your eyes and then suddenly the image appears. Tell them it is something or someone they really want to see. The only difference will be that there will be no image. They will try and try to see something that doesn’t exist.
  

It doesn’t have to be that difficult. When I left one association, I was given the perfect gift to drive somebody insane. Mind you, that was not their intent. They gave me something that they thought I would really cherish, but it drove me insane. What did they give me? A pen, a very nice pen!

The problem is that I often lose pens. That’s why I love the really cheap ones. I can leave them somewhere and not consider it a great loss. This pen, on the other hand, cost quite a bit. It wasn’t a mere pen, but a writing instrument. The refills were expensive and they seemed to be needed sooner than other pens I have owned.

I remember the first time it went missing. I had driven home a few miles on a snowy, cold evening. I pulled into my driveway and noticed that my pen was missing. I guessed that it must have fallen out of my clipboard in the parking lot where I had attended a meeting. I drove all the way back and searched for about 10 minutes in the drifts that were forming. I found it.

There were similar incidents along the way, until one day I lost it for good. It was as if the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders. I was free from this pen that was dominating my life.

I still lose pens at an alarming rate, but somehow it doesn’t bother me when it says something like Joe’s Plumbing and Heating on it. I figure I can always go back to Joe and ask for another one. However, you can’t admit to the giver of the gift pen that you have lost it.

One of These Days

I thought I would have a bit of fun publishing this one today.
One of these days I'm going to be all wrinkled
And one of these days you'll be all wrinkled too
But I don't care about one of these days
As long as today's with you

One of these days the sky will be all cloudy
The grey will cover up all the blue
But you know that, honey, I'm saving the sunshine
Of one of these days with you

Cause life is now or never
And if we're clever
We'll see what we've got
It is quite a lot
But if we ever measure
We'll have our treasure
In what we've given
Not what we've got

One of these days
I'll be thinking about you
And remember your kisses and how they were true
Well, today could be now just one of those days
Just one of those days with you.

To Be Like Me

As an occasional teacher, you sometimes meet a group of students and something clicks. When it does, it is magic. You find you are teaching about life as well as the curriculum. This happened to me on November 8.

Throughout the day, I was able to draw from my own personal experiences in other countries to supplement the lessons. The students seemed to enjoy the tales of my adventures in places like Guatemala, Poland, Turkey, China, India, Kosovo and Macedonia.

If there is time at the end of the day, I often ask students if they have any questions about anything for me. I promise that I will answer truthfully any question that I deem serious and not too personal.

At the back of the room was a girl with her hand up immediately. She had told me that she had really traveled nowhere and admired the fact that I had. She asked, “How can I be like you?” I was flattered, but my answer shot from my mouth as soon as it flashed in my brain.

I said, “You can’t be like me. You can only be like you. Your job is to listen to that voice in your soul and use the gifts that you have been given to be the best you you can be.”

You could have heard a pin drop. It was not the answer they had expected. It was not the answer I thought I would have given. Yet, it was so profound and true.

Competing

We only lost 4 games that season. We played about 70. Unfortunately, we lost 2 of those 4 games in the Ontario midget softball championship. Two one-run losses to a team from Sarnia and that was it. We lost the championship.

What really hurt was that Sarnia got its two runs during the only time it rained in the whole game. It’s tough to throw a rise ball when it is wet. As a batter, I didn’t get a hit in the whole series and left 9 players stranded on base in the final game.

I don’t like losing and I was devastated for the whole winter. Thoughts of what could have and should have been plagued my mind. I went through each of the two final games and agonized over never being able to deliver the key hit.

As they say in sports, wait until next year and next spring found me on the ball diamond again. However, this time I not only was a player, I coached a team of boys under 11.

Almost all of them came from Edithvale Public School, and most of them were buddies who lived in the neighbourhood. All of them were playing on an organized team for the first time, but they were all proud of to put on the sweater of our sponsor, the Rotary Club of Willowdale.

I’d love to say that we coached this team to a league championship. We didn’t. We didn’t have a prayer.

One of the teams had gone around scooping up the best kids from several schools. They were very good, so good, in fact, that they won the Ontario Squirt Championship that year.

In spite of our excellent pep talk, when we played them, they beat us 50-0. I didn’t slip in an extra zero. They beat us 50-0, but something happened to put my whole attitude about competition in focus.

The pitcher of the team, a kid by the name of O’Callahan, would have pitched a perfect game if it hadn’t been for Umberto. He was a big Italian boy who got close to a few too many plates of spaghetti. Let’s just say he was stocky.

Umberto came to bat near the end of the game. He liked to crowd the plate, so his belly was over the inside corner. O’Callahan let a pitch fly. It soared towards the plate and promptly hit Umberto in the stomach. It bounced halfway back to the pitcher like a gymnast on a trampoline. Everybody, including Umberto, laughed as he trotted like Babe Ruth towards first.

In spite of the lopsided score, I realized that every kid on our team had fun playing softball. It was time for me to look at how I was playing it.

Until that point, winning meant everything to me. Suddenly my focus shifted. The object of the game was to play it with passion and do my very best. That is all that could be expected of me. If I did that, winning would pretty well take care of itself. And I would enjoy the game even more. Instead of spending negative energy on beating the opposition, I would be using all of my powers to become a better player.

I have been able to apply this to other areas of my life. I don’t try to compete. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want to win. I do, but it allows me to appreciate the excellence in others and myself. I don’t have to be THE best. I only have to be MY best. So instead of racing against others, I am following the road of my destiny and enjoying the trip.

The Anti-Beckham

Like most, the media affect me. I struggle while I try to reach perfection. The only problem is that while you can airbrush a photograph, it is difficult to doctor your life in the same way. I can’t be perfect. I can only be the best I can be.

Andy Warhol once said, “In the future, everyone will be famous for 15 minutes.” Have you ever wondered if your 15 minutes ever came and you were on a coffee break? I have.

Like George Orwell once predicted, we are in the era of doublespeak. Words mean whatever you want. Spin is something you do with the truth, instead of a setting on your dryer.

Take, for instance, the concept of the reality program. Is there anything real about any of them? I don’t think so. I don’t know many who have been stuck in some remote area, or had over 10 people trying to hook up with them. My life can certainly never be like this. If we really want a reality program, let’s create one called “Find Osama”.

In the 60s, blacks were fighting against segregated schools in Alabama. Currently some are wanting all-black schools in Ontario. All they are doing is finding another word for segregation to hide what it really is.

Let’s look at some of our “stars” that we acknowledge. What have many of them done except promote themselves in a shameless way.

We preach against violence, yet fight for the “artistic freedom” that promotes and encourages this violence. The same goes for racism and sexism. It is fine for certain ethnic origins to say certain words, but not everyone. What? Isn’t that racism? Many will argue that it is not. Feminism is still strong, but where are the feminists when women are portrayed on music videos as sex objects? Why aren’t they protesting in front of the MuchMusic studios?

Where I live, people who play their music very loud (much louder than necessary) talk about freedom, while they force others to listen to their sound without consideration that they may want to be free to be quiet. Their solution is often to leave your house and go somewhere.

I think I have found the way through all this. In order to be unique, you have to be against everything that is popular out there. Right now, it would mean being the “Anti-Beckham”.

I have a pretty good head start. I play soccer more like Madonna than Maradonna. I am much older than he is. The stubble of my beard would not be considered cute.

I have often thought that I could be an unmotivational speaker. I could be hired by companies to deflate the spirit of their employees. I wonder why we have so many motivational speakers. Wouldn’t one be enough? Why do we have to keep on motivating people over and over?

But you know something? The best thing is to just try to be me. If I stumble and fall when I am somebody else, I can’t correct that person.

Betty

Sometimes in life things happen to you and there is no plain lesson. They hurt and that is all there is to it. Betty was involved in one of those incidents.

Betty was my best friend. I told her everything. She was there for me to hug and to hold. She meant the world to me.

Betty was my doll when I was about 3 years old.

I remember one of my brothers coming home and telling my mother that it wasn’t right for a boy to have a doll. It would have a bad influence and I would grow up being strange in some way, shape or form. I would become a sissy.

It wasn’t long after that some strangers came to our door. They had come for Betty. I remember scooping her up and running with her to the basement stairs. The footsteps came closer. I screamed. I sobbed. I pleaded. And Betty was ripped away from my arms, never to be seen again.

I can rationalize and forgive my mother. I know she was trying to do what she thought was right. The feeling of being totally deserted and helpless still hurts. Why didn’t anybody consider me?

Before my mother died, we talked about this. I could tell she was genuinely sorry. The next time I came to her apartment, she presented me with another doll. It was ugly, and it was not Betty.

To this day, I hate saying goodbye.

If you have a child who has a dear friend, I plead with you not to take it away from him until he is ready to part with it. The damage you are trying to avoid may be less harsh than the damage you do by removing the loved one.

Fortunately my stuffed dog, Bullet, named after Roy Rogers’ dog, helped me through the pain. Bullet has been with me over 50 years. His ear is clipped on with a safety pin. Most of his fur is worn off. The button eyes are long gone. He will go with me wherever I do, even into the grave. We have been through too much together and he is my friend forever.

When will our souls meet?

(This one was written a few years ago, but I sort of like it. It is dedicated to Joan.)
I am here
There you are
What strange happening has brought us this far?
I don’t know
But I already love you a lot.

You are beautiful
That’s for sure
But it takes more than beauty for a love to endure
That I know
It’s a lesson to me life has taught

Tell me
When will our souls finally meet?
When will our love be complete?
When will we be free to be you and me?
Tell me, then show me it’s true

Hold my hand
Till we part
Look into my eyes and you see my heart
And it’s real
I have fallen in love with you

Come with me
When I call
When you jump I won’t let you fall
That’s for sure
My feelings for you are true

Tell me
When will our souls finally meet?
When will our love be complete?
When will we be free to be you and me?
Tell me, then show me it’s true

The World’s Best

I was reading in the newspaper about the world’s best pizza dough spinner. This guy can really spin them and do tricks. He can make the crust while rolling it behind his back, through his legs and various other acrobatic contortions.

I remember a few other acts that have really wowed me. One was a juggler with Ice Capades. He juggled the usual swords, flaming batons and chain saws. What impressed me was hit throwing three Frisbees into the crowd and juggling them in this manner. I have trouble throwing one Frisbee and having it return to me! But it got even better. The climax was his juggling three ping-pong balls – in his mouth – while skating. It was simply amazing.

When I lived in England, there was a guy who could toss back a pint of beer while he was playing the piano without missing a note or spilling a drop. Again, simply amazing.

I figure there are enough things in the world, everybody has to be the best at something. One of my great unsung talents is that I can play tunes on a blade of grass. Most people can get it to squawk. I have a repertoire of several songs, including our national anthem. Maybe one day I will play for a Blue Jay game. The only problem I have is that I can only play in the summer. Also, I sometimes cut my lip on the grass. Anybody out there want to kiss it better?

I was fortunate enough to grow up with one of the virtuosos of all time. His name was Pete Hobday. His talent was belching. Hobday was a triple threat. He had volume. He could be heard from a great distance. He could sing tunes while belching. He could continually belch one after another hundreds of times.

How good was he? A friend of mine went to Germany in the 1970s. In the evening he visited a local pub for some beer. In the back was a crowd chanting in unison, “Hey, hey, hey, hey …” He decided to go back and investigate. As he got closer, he realized that the mob was chanting in sync with somebody belching. He thought, “That sounds like Hobday,” AND IT WAS!

So all you have to do is find your niche. As I said, I think I have found mine. If you want to book a grass player for your special occasion, just give me a call.

My First Kiss

Unless you don’t remember your own name, you know everything about your first kiss. I am no different. I can recall it like it was yesterday.

Now, let’s define what I mean by a first kiss. I’m not talking about a light smack by relations. Pecks on the cheeks don’t count, either. It has to be on the lips and it has to be given in love.

It was a sunny day at Black Creek Pioneer Village. I was old by today’s standards. I was over 18. It must have been during high school exams, because the place was empty. Suzanne and I wandered around looking at what life was like in the 1800s in Canada. After walking around for an hour or so, we went to a hill and lay down in the sun. It was warm and bright, so bright that I shut my eyes.

Suddenly, I felt her warm, soft lips on mine. It felt wonderful. My response was, “That was nice. Do it again.” Suzanne obliged.

You have to understand that my family is not the kissing type. My mother didn’t kiss me. I had an aunt who tried, but I always managed to avoid her. In fact, I never saw my mother ever kiss my father or even hold his hand. This experience of kissing was very new to me.

I would love to tell you that this experience led to passionate lovemaking, but it wouldn’t be true. While I fell in love with Suzanne, I had no idea what that meant. While many would have talked about reaching first base, then second and so on, I was like the kid who hits the ball for the first time. He is so shocked, he doesn’t think about running any bases.

I do know that Suzanne’s mother really liked me – she liked me a lot. I saw this as a sign that Suzanne and I were meant to be together forever. Little did I realize that, for a teenage girl, having your mother liking your boyfriend is the kiss of death.

Later on in life I realized why her mom liked me so much. On my first visit to Suzanne’s home, I was introduced to the family. Then Suzanne mentioned how she was weaving a bag for her best friend Nancy on a loom that was in her bedroom. She asked me if I wanted to help. Eagerly, I said, “Yes!”

The bedroom door opened and inside was this huge loom. Suzanne showed me how it worked and asked if I wanted to try. Oh, I did. I sat down and wove for about an hour, totally immersed in the process. The room was filled with the sound of the shuttle going back and forth. I’m sure that it was loud enough for Suzanne’s mother to hear downstairs. When we emerged from the room about an hour later, her mom wore this broad smile. I felt so happy that her mom liked me. Little did I know that this love was doomed from that moment.

Suzanne went off to university soon after, promptly met someone else and was married within a year. My heart was broken. I remember sending her a letter asking why. I never received a reply.

Yes, I had hit the ball. By the time I figured out that I had to run the bases, I was thrown out before I reached first. Looking back, I imagine Suzanne wished I had understood that only hitting the ball was not enough.

Fortunately, I love baseball and softball. Through the years, my hitting improved and so did my baserunning. I got to touch all the bases eventually. I was always willing to attend practices. I like to think that my understanding of the game is much better, too. And like all great hitters, I can’t wait for my next turn at bat.

The Corsage

“You’ve got to help me!” My friend pleaded with me. "You’ve got to take this girl to her sorority event." This girl was getting interested in my friend, an interest he didn’t want to grow. While I was reluctant to get involved in this mess he had created, he was a good friend. I consented to this blind date.

He certainly sold me on her. Her sister had been Miss Edmonton the previous year. She belonged to this sorority that all the kids of rich people belonged to. I, on the other hand, had only $20 to my name. With about half of my life savings, I decided to buy a corsage for my date.

I arrived at her home dressed in my only suit, corsage in my hand. The door opened and I saw that she was beautiful. I also saw that her dress had very thin straps. There was no place to put a corsage. I also saw the funny look on her face that said she would have never worn what represented half of my worldly riches anyway.

I also noticed that her leg was bandaged. She had injured herself skiing that afternoon. What else could go wrong? Plenty.

I escorted her to my chariot, a red Toyota pick-up truck with a canopy camper on the back. That was my vehicle then. From the look on her face, I wish that a fairy godmother could have come along and turned it into a Mercedes. In spite of her sore leg, she insisted that we park a couple of blocks away from the party.

We entered and I was briefly introduced to a couple of people, then she sort of disappeared. I wasn’t too disappointed. I hadn’t had a good meal in a long time and the food here was plentiful and tasty.

What a party it was! The children of the rich and famous of Edmonton were there. People kept coming up to me and asking what I was “into”, instead of what I did. I answered that I was “into” education, since I was taking my Bachelor of Education at the time. I wondered if these rich people really knew how poor I was.

I’m glad I am a fast eater, because a half an hour after our arrival, my date, whom I had barely seen, came back and asked to be taken home. Her leg was aching too much, though she declined my offer to bring the truck to the front door. I still have a hunch that she got rid of me to return to the party. I had eaten well, although the friend who set this up was going to hear about this.

I dropped her off. She made sure I didn’t walk her to the door, but I did the unthinkable. I asked for the corsage back. Why? Was I out of my mind?

No. I had a second blind date a couple of nights later. A girls’ group was having a father-daughter banquet. A friend had asked me if I would be the father for a night for a young girl who didn’t have one. This way she would be less embarrassed at the event. Even though I didn’t know what I was getting into, I told me friend that I would do it.

The night of the second blind date came. You know what? I was more nervous meeting this ten year old than the sister of Miss Edmonton. What if she didn’t like me? What if she was ashamed to be with me?

Then she came through the door. I was introduced, and then I showed her the corsage. Her eyes grew like saucers. She trembled with joy as I pinned it on her. While she was the only one without a real dad, she was also the only one with a beautiful corsage. She held her head up high as we walked into the room. We had a great time. It was wonderful seeing her smile and hearing her laughter. I think she was proud to have a special friend like me. I certainly was proud of her, just like a dad would have been.

It was the same corsage. In one person’s eyes it was worthless. In another’s it was priceless. Every one of us has a gift. You know what? In some people’s eyes, it will be worthless. Ignore them. I can assure you that if you meet enough people you will discover somebody who finds your gift priceless.

Jacques Brel

Et la guerre arriva, et nous voilà ce soir. And the war arrived, and here we are tonight.

I love the music of Jacques Brel. This Belgian who died in 1978 crafted many songs, usually with several depths of meaning.

I never understood the significance of this last line in his song, Mon Enfance, until I was in France.

The song portrays an ideal childhood full of imagination and adventure and abruptly ends with this line. Why the sudden fast-forward at the end?

It was a few decades ago and I was sitting in a room with a few people who had lived through World War II.

I am fascinated by how people react to the history that is paraded through their lives, so I started asking questions. I also love a good story, and I was sure that these people in a small village in France would be able to entertain me for hours. I looked forward to hearing the real stories of how it was during the war.

One of the gentlemen started to give me a reply.

Another hissed, “Fermez ta gueule!” Shut your trap! His anger rose in every inch of his body.

The understanding of the last line of the song hit me as fast as this insult had been hurled.

All of these people had lived through the war, but it was not to be remembered. It had to be erased from everyone’s past. For many, it had not been a pleasant experience.

I suspected that another reason was that the feelings for the German soldiers varied. Some French women had German boyfriends, complete with being able to obtain certain luxury items. At the end of the war, many of these women had their heads shaved and were paraded around their towns naked. On the opposite end of the spectrum, others had family killed by their invaders.

These feelings run deep. Perhaps it was better to completely obliterate the memory of the war than drudge up feelings that would cause old wounds to bleed again. Live in the present and don’t allow old hurts to affect it.

Note: If you want to explore some of the music of Jacques Brel, look for some of my favourite songs: Quand On A Que L’Amour, Ne Me Quitte Pas, La Chanson de Vieux Amants, La Ville S’Endormait, Le Plat Pays, and, of course, Mon Enfance.

Bowling Tips

He wasn’t too happy. I went to a church bowling tournament where it was assumed that the person who organized it would win. He had won every other time they had had this event.

I really wasn’t trying to win, either. While I was an average bowler, my scores posed no threat to the champ.

Nobody counted on a tip that would instantly improve my bowling scores forever and teach me something about life, too.

While I was warming up, my frustration of not knocking over many pins showed. Then one of the Riske brother’s said, “John, try aiming for the markers on the floor partway down the alley and not the pins.”

I did. Strike. I did it again. Strike. I rattled off five strikes in a row. I couldn’t believe it.

To me, the object of bowling had always been to knock down the pins, but it never occurred to me that if I aimed at something closer, the rest would take care of itself.

With a bit of embarrassment, I received the trophy from the person who was expected to win it. He was gracious, but I could see the look of disappointment in his face.

Don’t we do the same thing in life? We set our sights on something off in the distance without looking for the markers that are closer that will guide us to our goal, knowing that if we hit them, our chance of success will be better.

Rowing the Boat

While we didn’t have money for luxuries in our family, my mother always made sure we had two weeks of vacation.

When we were young, it used to be a small cabin at the back of the lot where the Williams had their cottage. This was at Lake Simcoe. The cabin was actually quite a distance from the beach. We walked barefoot along the hot, tarred surface. At night we used to listen to old radio programs, reading our comic books until we fell asleep.

Then my brother married a girl from the town of Rosseau. Her parents had a cottage near the town and they rented it to us. Compared to the cabin, it was paradise. Right next-door was Lady Eaton’s place. You would be hard-pressed to call it a cottage. Funny, though, in the few years we went there, we never saw anybody. It’s too bad we aren’t there now. Martin Short owns the place now.

There was only one problem with staying at this place. We had no car. We would be dropped off on one weekend and somebody would come to pick us up a couple of weeks later.

Eventually we had to get supplies. The trip across the lake was a pretty long one. While there were canoes, they were considered too dangerous for crossing. If a power boat came near, it might tip it. So we used the trusty old row boat. By we, I mean my mother and me.

I must admit, before I started, I look across the lake and wondered how we were going to do it. It was pretty far to town.

However, my mom sat in the front of the boat and I commenced rowing, one stroke at a time. While we were crossing the lake, my mother would tell me stories, sing, and we would wave at the motorboats.

Sure enough, we eventually got to our destination. We did our shopping, hung around town a bit, dropped into say hello to our sister-in-law’s parents, bought the latest comic books for only 10 cents each, and got back into our rowboat to head home.

I learned a few things from this. One, if you don’t take the trip one stroke at a time, you will never reach your destination. Two, making the trip fun makes it a lot easier. Three, once you make the trip once, doing it again is easier.

In life, isn’t it that way most of the time? Success usually doesn’t come instantly. You have to keep on stroking towards your destination. However, if you are enjoying yourself and laughing, it makes it easier. And finally, once you have reached your destination, future goals will be easier to achieve.

The Gift

It was Christmas. I was about 13 years old. Even though I had a large family, I usually only bought for four people – my next oldest sister, my next oldest brother, my mother and my dad. I would have loved to buy for everybody, but with a budget of only $5, buying gifts for four was stretching it. I didn’t get an allowance like most of the other kids at school, so I didn’t have much to spend. I don’t even remember where I got the $5.

Dad was always the easiest. I’d go into Kresge’s and buy him some work socks for 99 cents. It was something he always needed and it became a tradition in my family.

The budget for my brother and sister was about a dollar each, too. They were a bit more difficult to buy for, but I did my best.

Without a doubt, the hardest person to buy for was my mom. Having so many children, after so many Christmases, she had almost everything $2 could buy.

I remember going to Northtown Plaza and walking around for hours searching for the perfect gift. For my mom, it had to be the perfect gift for two reasons. I wanted to please my mom, and she was noted for speaking her mind. If she got something she didn’t like, she let people know.

After much soul searching, I decided what would be my perfect gift for her. It was actually two gifts, a natural sponge and an extension cord. Nothing says love like a natural sponge and an extension cord.

On Christmas Eve, my brother asked, “What did you get mom for Christmas?” My confession was met with immediate peals of laughter. My sister in the next room asked him what he was laughing at. He told her and her laughter joined in on the chorus. The laughing got so loud that mom eventually shouted upstairs, “What’s all that laughing about?” My brother replied, “Your gift from Johnny.”

You can imagine the feelings I had the next day when I handed my mom my gifts. Forget the fact that it is difficult to wrap a natural sponge and an extension cord. I just wanted her to like what I got.

Carefully she opened each one. She wasn’t really sure what the natural sponge was. To her, a sponge was rectangular and usually yellow. This brown sphere in front of her required an imagination to figure out what to do with it. She recognized the extension cord, though. She mumbled something about both gifts being practical and thanked me for them. I did recognize the fact that she really did try to look excited about my gifts, but let’s face it. It is pretty hard to find much emotion about a natural sponge and an extension cord.

It took me many years to learn my lesson. Like my mom, I too often looked at a gift and determined whether it was useful to me. Living through the depression, she determined whether something was a waste of money or not, and I was the same. What I failed to do was to focus on the giver and the spirit with which it is given. That is what is essential.

As an occasional teacher, kids sometimes give me something at the end of the day. Sometimes they are very hurried, and they are usually not very attractive. You know what? I cherish their gifts so much. Often words are misspelled and the grammar is poor. These children will never know this. There is no error in their way. Regardless of the artistry of the gift, I have learned to see the heart of the giver. To me, that is so precious.

At Christmas, I still don’t tend to give expensive gifts. However, I do spend time on the gifts I give. I use my imagination and think of the person while I am searching. For birthdays and events, I often make my own cards. You see, I am still that young boy who has only $5, but is giving from the bottom of his heart. I have tried to see that person in everybody who gives me a gift.

Justifiable Violence?

I was not a wanted child. Don’t misunderstand me. That doesn’t mean that my family doesn’t like me. It’s just that when my mother announced that she was pregnant with her eight child, some of my siblings were upset. There were already nine people crammed into a small house. Why did there have to be one more?

The person who took it the hardest was my next oldest brother. He was five years old when I was born. For those five years, he was the centre of attention. He was the cute young boy. All of a sudden, his valued place in the family was take by some little runt.

I don’t know if he has gotten over it, but all through my childhood he tormented me and often made my life difficult.

I slept in the same bedroom as he did. My bed had an Indian pattern on the blanket, a mixture of light and dark colours. Even at night the contrast was great enough that you could see the pattern.

I’d be just about asleep and he would say, “John, there’s a snake on your bed. I think it’s a cobra.” I’d strain my eyes to try to find the snake on the Indian blanket, then duck under the covers, trembling myself to sleep.

Another time, he and some friends played Sardines with me. This game is the reverse of Hide and Go Seek. Only one person hides and everyone looks for him. When one person finds him, he stays with him. Eventually there is only one person who hasn’t found the person hiding. My brother and his friends choose me to be the first person to hide. I was so proud to be picked first. I found a great hiding spot. The only problem was that they didn’t even bother to look for me. I found them a couple of hours later calmly watching television.

Once my brother put a cattail between his teeth and mimicked a Spanish dancer clicking her castanets. He asked me to try. When he did, he grabbed the cattail and pulled it through my teeth creating a mixture of seed and blood.

A regular occurrence was his coming into the living room and changing the channel to what he wanted, even though I had been watching something for a long time. This happened time and time again. I could protest, but it was useless. And I felt powerless.

While puberty is a troublesome time, it does have its good points. By the time I was 18 I was strong and fit. I remember watching the Winter Olympics when my brother came in and without asking turned it to golf. That was it. I had had it. He wasn’t going to get away with that any more. We had our usual fight, but something happened this time. I cleaned his clock. He was the one who ran upstairs crying at the end of it.

And me? I was sobbing at the kitchen table. My mother, in a rare show of affection, came and patted my shoulder. She seemed to understand. I was sobbing for three reasons. One, I hate fighting. I really don’t like violence, but I felt it couldn’t be avoided. Two, I felt sad for my brother. I know the indignity that he felt at that moment. I had felt this sting many times. Three, I knew that the years of bullying had just come to an end and I was sobbing for joy. They cycle had been broken.

I repeat, I hate violence, but in the eyes of constant tormenting, it is sometimes necessary to stop the pattern of abuse. If I had caved in, it would have continued.

When I look at history, I see some violent acts that seem justifiable to me. For example, the opposition to Hitler seems right. I can’t imagine how the world would be if people had not opposed his violence with violence.

Here is a quote from Pastor Martin Niemoeller, a church leader who opposed Hitler.
“First they came for the Communists, but I was not a Communist so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Socialists and the Trade Unionists, but I was neither, so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Jews, but I was not a Jew so I did not speak out. And when they came for me, there was no one left to speak out for me.”

There are times when you just have to stand up and say no in the strongest terms necessary. It’s something that many Canadians understand completely. Why? We play hockey. We know that if you allow the other team to bully you on the ice without any retaliation, you are almost certain to lose. To sit there and allow anyone to treat you with less than the dignity you deserve is to live a life that is less that what it is intended to be. To do less means that you have not earned their respect, but what is worse is that you have no respect for yourself, either.

The Patch Kit

Apparently this is a tradition started somewhere in Western Canada. Wherever it’s origin, it makes a lot of sense.

No matter how much people may be in love, there are going to be some rough patches. What do you do when you hit one of these speed bumps in life? Pull out your patch kit.

It consists of some coffee, a candle and your favourite liquor such as Bailey’s or Kahlua

1. Grind the coffee and make a pot of it. In extreme cases, the Bailey’s (or your favourite liquor) can be added to the coffee to help ease the conversation.
2. Light the candle and turn off all other lights.
3. Make sure there are no other distractions, especially the telephone.
4. Sit alone with your spouse and talk about how to solve the problem until:
a. The pot of coffee is empty.
b. There is no more candle.

This is the very essence of the ritual, but it is important that you communicate and talk things out.

Life doesn’t present us with an operating manual. We have to work it out as we go along.

My First Ball Glove

It was one of the few father-son moments that I cherish. I was buying my first softball glove. It almost didn’t happen.

It all started with a piece of paper tacked to a tree in our schoolyard. There would be tryouts for a team in the Willowdale Softball League. Unlike today, where everybody pays and everybody plays, you had to make this team for the right to go on the field.

Softball was played at our school, so it was no surprise that there was quite a crowd trying out for the 15 positions that were available.

I was there, too, but I had a problem. I didn’t have a proper glove. I had never played on a team, so I was forced to use one of my brother’s gloves for the tryout. This created another problem. All of my brothers who had gloves were left-handed. I was right-handed. So there I was at the practice with a glove on the wrong hand trying to shag fly balls.

The deal with my family was if I made the team, I would get my own glove.

I was in serious trouble. Some of the kids had gloves big enough to catch watermelons. The ball would soar up in the air and these big nets would extend towards the sky, the ball magnetically drawn towards the big pocket.

My brother’s glove perched on the wrong hand would timidly crawl towards the projectile like a caterpillar climbing a tree. More often than not, it would hit the leather as if it was wood and plop out. The coach would shout at the other kids to catch with two hands. I had no option. Both hands were necessary to control this savage beast.

One by one, the kids signed the registration form, indicating their acceptance to the Promised Land at Kinsmen Park. My name was not called. Finally, on the last practice before the first game of the season, Lloyd Birney, the coach, called me over. He told me that he was impressed with the fact that I tried so hard and that he didn’t have the heart to cut me. While this stung my pride a bit – he didn’t have the heart to cut me? – I was past the Pearly Gates. I was in heaven. I would finally get my own glove.

My dad and I got in the car the next evening and went the shrine of sporting goods, Dobby’s on Yonge Street. As soon as we entered into the store the smell of the leather caressed our noses. My dad and I bonded as we weighed every aspect of what I needed and what I could spend. Soon I had the glove of my dreams. It didn’t have any major league player’s signature on it, but that was no problem. It was mine and I put my name carefully on the strap on the back.

As I grew, so did my hands. It soon came time to buy a bigger mitt. However, like a first love, I haven’t forgotten my first glove. I still have it. Once in awhile I get it out, cover as much of my hand as I can with it, thunk a ball into the pocket and talk to it about the old times and the dreams we once had. Also, I thank it for an amazing over-the-shoulder catch in the final game of the Ontario championship in 1965. Along with my prized stuffed dog Bullit, I expect that glove will accompany me throughout eternity.

You see, this glove was not an ordinary glove. It represented that moment when the child started becoming a boy. And having my father along to witness that moment meant the world to me. It was one of the few times my dad and I hung out as men.