My First Ball Glove

 I still have the very first glove I owned. When I go, I have given Marie instructions that the glove goes with me. Our family didn't have much money, but we had pride. We had to earn what we got, but if we earned it, we got it. 

There were tryouts for a squirt-age team at my school. The deal was that if I made the team, I would get a glove. So I had to use my brother's glove until I did or if I did. The only problem was that he was left-handed and I was right-handed. There I was with this glove awkwardly perched on my hand like the claw of a crab. 

The day finally came where the coaches started signing the players. Unlike today, players could be cut and not make the team. I dreaded walking home in rejection. One by one I watched as my schoolmates were called to the coach to print their name on the registration form. With each one of them, my heart sank. Finally, my name was called. I was the last one to sign. All of the anxiety and worry flushed out of my body in one moment. I made the team, Bellwood and Green, an autobody shop in Willowdale. To this day, I can remember the smell of the sweater. Although it wasn't pleasant, it was the smell of success, one that would be repeated in future years with different teams.

I ran home and the door flew open as if it had no choice. I was through it in a flash. I screamed that I made the team.

The next night my dad and I went to Dobby's Sporting Goods on Yonge Street. I approached the store as if I were visiting a holy shrine. This wasn't any ordinary sports store. This was Dobby's. The whole place smelled like leather. It was intoxicating. The odour added to the sacredness of the place. Mr. Dobson sized up my hand and recommended the glove my dad eventually bought. We also got a can of dubbin to help work in the glove.

If should be noted that my father and I rarely shared moments together, but this one is one of the treasures I keep in my heart. Dad really knew nothing about softball, but he and my mom used to come to my games, about the closest thing to a date that they ever had. Making that team gave me a few moments of my childhood where I felt like I was in a family and that I was good at something.

I got home and slathered the glove with dubbin, put a ball in the pocket and tied it with string to shape the pocket. I had three days before the first practice. My glove would be ready.

When I arrived at the field, my glove fit me, well, like a glove. It fit perfectly, not too snug, but not too loose. I had a look at some of the gloves the other kids had. They were huge, capable of catching small pumpkins. I wasn't intimidated at all. Mr. Dobson, Dobby, had recommended my glove and he was God to me.

I used that glove for several years. Eventually it became too small for my hand, but I pressed it into service for one more year. It was the year we won our first Ontario championship. We were playing the third game of a best of three series against Beamsville. Their cleanup hitter was huge, Steve Earl. I was playing right field and he launched one way over my head. I ran back farther and farther then made an over-the-shoulder catch with my precious glove. Turned out that this catch made the difference between the championship and the long drive home.

So you can see that this was more than "just a glove" to me. It was symbolic of a journey that would take me to some dreams that most kids would have missed. 

If you come here, I have another glove. We'll get out a ball and play catch, me with my first glove. Like me, the old glove isn't what it used to be. But like me, it is still capable of doing the basics. It's full of memories of a part of life that shaped me to be the person I am. In recent years, the guys on the team have gotten together socially. It all started on the 50th anniversary of our first Ontario championship. For all of us, it uncovered a treasure of emotion from our youth and we have occasionally gotten together since. That extra dimension of love has warmed my soul in ways I can't describe. We were legends, and like all legends, they become greater as time passes. 

The St. Marys House of Ill Repute

For the past couple of summers, my friends and I have produced a live Internet TV show called The Front Porch Show. You can find it here.
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCLiC53KDbzs5u38Qliv7Wvg

The show features guests, music and advertising about St. Marys. However, one Sunday, one of the advertisers cancelled at the last minute. We had to fill the space with something. Although we never had to use it, I came up with this fun poem.

The St. Marys House of ill Repute

It’s where you wear your birthday suit

Just come on in and give our place a trial

We don’t really give a hoot

If you’re local or commute

We guarantee you’ll leave here with a smile

It’s twenty-four seven every day

And if you want to come and play

We will do all we can for you

We will do it any old way

As long as you’re prepared to pay

We take Mastercard and Visa, too.

You’ll find us on the Internet

Facebook, Twitter? Yes, you bet

You can reach us any way you like

We’re as discreet as you can get

We’ll treat you like we’ve never met

Come by bus, car or motorbike

The St. Marys House of Ill Repute

Is found on this town’s major route

Call us on your phone don’t hesitate

It is the best, there’s no dispute

Your satisfaction absolute

Call St Marys 284-8888.

Now before you put us on your list

The business really doesn’t exist

We want to see if you’re really awake

It was some fun we couldn’t resist

To give a commercial a funny twist

In order to fill a sixty second break.

So now we really have to go

We hope you enjoy the rest of the show

There are important things that we must do

But there’s one thing that you should know

We’re happy that you help us grow

That’s the end goodbye, so long, adieu.

How Blind I was

What are your Christmas traditions? One of mine is starting to become writing an article for the Journal Argus about one of my past holidays. Here is this year’s.

          Having lived far from my family and being single, I often looked for people who had nowhere to go to spend Christmas day with them. In fact, if I am at home, I still try to find people who might be alone on Christmas Day. It’s the one day of the year most people don’t want to spend by themselves. But you have to look for them. They usually don’t jump out and say, “I’m alone on Christmas Day. Please, invite me.” Trust me, even if you have a home filled with family, these people will be a blessing to you, just like my friends Vivian and Allan were in the 1980s when they spent Christmas with me in Ottawa.

          I had become acquainted with Vivian through a local church in Edmonton. Not having a car, I often picked her up so she could attend some college and career group social events. As time went on, we became friends. Her positive attitude towards life made sure of that. I haven’t mentioned yet that Vivian is blind.

          She met Allan at a CNIB event. He was a former truck driver who suddenly woke up one morning blind. I really can’t imagine what a shock this must have been to him. Vivian and Allan enjoyed each other’s company and they decided to get married. There were some who worried how two blind people would manage together in a marriage. Vivian and Allan knew better.

          They sold Amway products in order to make ends meet. They were naturals selling the laundry detergent. Black ink would be placed on a white cloth, put into a jar with the laundry soap and shook up. Allan would then deftly pull it out and proclaim, “See? The ink is gone.” And, indeed it was. I immediately bought some soap. Anyone who had that much faith in the product was sure to sell lots of it.

          Having been blind since she was eight, Vivian was more comfortable with it. Thus, when it came time to get a seeing-eye dog, Mitzi, Allan was the one who received his new companion.

          Wanting to celebrate the extra freedom Mitzi gave him, Allan called me up before Christmas and asked me what I was doing. I had nothing planned, so he asked me if they could come to my place for Christmas. Of course, the answer was yes.

          Wanting to make it a special Christmas for them, I decided not to put up my tree until they arrived. I picked Vivian, Allan and Mitzi up at the Ottawa airport on the afternoon of Christmas Eve and whisked them to my place. Allan and Mitzi were certainly a great team together.

          After dinner, we put up my artificial tree and started decorating it. I didn’t have many decorations, so we had to improvise a bit with ribbons and bits of paper. I popped some popcorn and we strung it on a thread to make a garland. Johnny Mathis, Bing Crosby and Andy Williams put us in the festive mood crooning on their Christmas albums.

          When the decorating was done, we made hot chocolate with marshmallows and talked until just before midnight. I then sent everyone to bed, warning them that if they didn’t go, Santa might not come. When everyone retired, I stuffed the stockings with candies and trinkets, making sure that Mitzi had a stocking with some dog biscuits. Exhausted, I finally went to bed.

          The next morning, I awoke to the wonderful smell of tea biscuits baking in my kitchen. It quickly dawned on me how talented Vivian was. She had never been in my house, yet without sight, she was able to go to my kitchen and do everything necessary to make scrumptious biscuits.

          As I sauntered out of my bedroom through the living room towards the inviting aroma, I quickly scanned the glorious tree and noticed that the bottom part of the popcorn garland was missing. Mitzi stood there, happily wagging her tail. It was as if she said, “Thank you for the delicious Christmas gift.”

          After washing down Vivian’s biscuits with coffee or tea, we gathered around the tree and opened our gifts.

          Honestly, I don’t have any idea what any of the gifts were. I was well past the age when presents were really important. The real gift was the love that my friends showed me.

          Everyone pitched in to help prepare the turkey for dinner. Of course, Mitzi stood there watching. For her dinner, she got the benefit of the organs that were stuffed inside the turkey.

          We sat down to our feast, making sure to pull the Christmas crackers, put on the silly hats and collect the little toys. I got to read the jokes that were inside, each one followed by a terrible groan. The only other groans we had that night were after dinner from eating too much.

          The rest of the time was spent watching all the traditional television shows one sees at Christmas, listening to more music and chatting.

          A few days later, I took them back to the airport and they were gone. I returned to my empty home, thinking of how just hours before it had been filled with laughter and love. Although the laughter didn’t echo from the walls, somehow the glow of love remained.

          As Christmases come and go, this was one of the best ever. I must confess that I originally thought of how nice it would be to give two blind people and a dog a happy Christmas. In the end, I realized that I had been the one who had been blind. Christmas is simply about sharing the gift of love, and my friends had come all the way from Edmonton to do that with me. It isn’t just about feeling good about what I give that’s important. If that’s the case, then it’s still about me. It is more about what we share. I will always treasure what I learned from that experience so long ago.

A Special English Christmas

I think most Canadians would agree that Christmas is a special time of the year. The family usually gets together and they are surrounded by love. Food is plentiful and gifts are exchanged. With such festivities going on, life seems to be more cheerful.

When I have lived in other countries, I have tried to recreate this experience as closely as possible.  This can often be difficult. I can’t expect other places to be just like Canada. Also, my circumstances have sometimes made it difficult to replicate the celebration. That hasn’t stopped me from trying, though. Such was the case for my first Christmas in England.

Late in one October long ago, I strode into the CBC on Great Titchfield Street in London, England with my résumé looking for work. Marie and I had left Canada to try our good fortune elsewhere, casting our fates to the wind. They say timing is everything. When I arrived, they informed me that a job had been created that very day and I seemed to fit it perfectly. That was good. I was almost broke, so penniless in fact that I had to convince the CBC to start me in November because I wouldn’t have had enough money to last until December 1, as they proposed.

As Christmas approached, Marie and I looked at our funds and decided that we would put a cap on our Christmas gifts at ₤10 each, which at that time was about $20.00.

There was a small toyshop full of unusual items near where I worked. It became the source of my gifts. I decided to go with quantity rather than quality.

Marie took a different route. Winter was coming on, so she decided to get me a toque. She wandered from store to store asking for one. Time and time again she was told that there were none. Finally, somebody at one store asked, “What’s a toque?” She stated that it was a woolly hat. “Oh, we have plenty of those,” replied the salesperson. Thus, I was able to keep my head warm the rest of the winter.

We didn’t know many people. Those we did had plans with their families. We decided it was best to find a pub that was open and have our Christmas meal surrounded by others who wanted to celebrate without all the preparation.  There were no establishments near us that had something special for the day, but there were a few closer to central London.

At work two days before Christmas, a colleague told me of her Christmas plans and politely asked me of mine. I told her about planning to go to a pub.

“What pub are you planning on going to?” she asked. I told her about one in the west end of London.

“How are you going to get there?” Public transit was my matter-of-fact reply. Travelling by tube (the subway) and bus was all we could afford.

“You can only take a taxi. Do you know the whole public transit system is completely shut down on Christmas Day?” I didn’t and I felt like a huge stone had been dropped on my heart. The thought of tucking into a roasted turkey with all the trimmings suddenly changed to a grilled cheese sandwich with some fries. I felt like crying.

A few minutes later, my boss wandered by.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I wailed.

“Oh, then come and spend it with us,” he chirped.

“But you live on the other side of London and I can’t afford the cab fare,” I countered.

“No problem. I’ll come and pick you up. What’s your address?” he replied.

How could I say no to such a kind offer? I rushed home to tell Marie our change of plans and our good fortune.

I don’t know what it is, but I am always amazed at the calmness on Christmas morning. It’s just like the words in the carol, Silent Night.

Marie and I exchanged our gifts. My toque sat proudly on my head. My assortment of gifts created some laughter, but few memories, because I have no recollection now of what I gave Marie. Neither does she. Then we got ready and waited for my boss to arrive.

If you know anyone who works in television, time is important. My boss arrived precisely at the appointed time and we were whisked away to his home.

When we arrived, the door opened to a home that was decked out with all the trimmings of Christmas. His wife, two daughters and father welcomed us with open arms. We gave them the plant we had bought. What surprised us was that they provided gifts for us.

Laughter filled the room as we sat down to lunch. Marie skimmed the cream off of the tops of several milk bottles in an attempt to make eggnog.  But the festivities were just beginning. With Christmas music wafting in the background, we swapped stories from past years and digested the sumptuous food.

Soon it was time for the Christmas dinner. It was a feast indeed. Everything was just the way it is in Canada. We were having a true Canadian Christmas in England.

After tucking away more than I should have eaten, I sunk into a comfortable chair in the living room with everyone else who had done the same. Soon it was time to play the parlour games that some associate with the holiday, including charades. I still remember my boss’s father trying to get us to guess, “Come into the Garden, Maud,” obviously a song that hasn’t passed the test of time.

As the evening wore down, cobwebs started to form in our eyes. We were in a position where we didn’t want to leave, but it was impractical to think otherwise. We put on our jackets and my boss drove us home.  All of us were satisfied with this special Christmas we had shared together.

There is one important detail that I haven’t told you about in this story. In order to pick us up on Christmas day, my boss had to drive 45 minutes to pick us up, then 45 minutes to return home. He did that twice. That’s three hours of driving on Christmas Day! He could have been relaxing in his home enjoying time with his family, but he chose to give us the precious gift of his and his family’s love.

I haven’t forgotten his kindness and the special gift he gave us that year.  It wasn’t something that I could hold in my hands, but it was something I will hold in my heart forever.  It wasn’t something that I opened, but it was love that was opened and given to me.  Through the years I have received many presents at Christmas, but it was the unselfish act of my boss that has been one of my most cherished gifts of all time.  

Lessons from Old Records

When I was a young boy, I used to enjoy playing our family’s 78s on the record player. I’d listen to them over and over and over again. I used to drive my mother crazy listening to Davy Crockett, How Much Is That Doggie in the Window and Rock Around The Clock until I sat on it and broke it.

It wasn’t a digital world then. The needle scraping on the records would eventually produce scratches that could be heard quite clearly. Occasionally there would be a loud pop where some dust had settled and been ground into the groove. That didn’t stop me from enjoying the music. While I could hear the flaws, I would focus on the melody and still delight in the tunes.  No matter how many times I played it and how many scratches were on the record, Davy Crocket was still “king of the wild frontier.”

Today, things are quite different. Any undesirable sound can be electronically edited so songs are identical every time we play them. However, there is a life lesson to be learned from old records.

While I feel I have lived a charmed life, it has been far from perfect. Along the way, I have suffered some scratches, some which remain today. There are many things that have happened that I just can’t change. Still, it all comes down to how I want to define my life.  Just like the old records, I found I have the choice to listen to the scratches or focus on the sweet melody of my life I have been given. One will produce misery and defeat; the other, joy and contentment. One will tell a story of my misfortunes; the other will celebrate what my life has been meant to be. One will focus on what is wrong; the other will dwell on what is right.

Occasionally I catch myself replaying some of my misfortunes. However, I would like to be remembered by the melody I have been given to play for the world, not the scratches that I have gathered along the way. 

A Christmas Turkey in Turkey

It was only a year ago, but it will be a Christmas I will never forget.

When I worked as a teacher in Istanbul, December 25 was a working day at our school. Turkey is a predominantly Muslim country, so this is quite logical.  All of the English, American and Canadian teachers told our boss that we would be calling in sick if we didn't get the day off to convince him that this was serious, indeed. He reluctantly relented and gave us the day off without pay.

The hotels and restaurants in Istanbul don't celebrate the holidays to the same degree we do in Canada. There were Christmas decorations in some streets, but no special banquets prepared in restaurants that I knew of. If there were, I knew I couldn't afford the meal. The only solution was to try to create a Canadian Christmas in Turkey.

I polled my friends and colleagues to see who would be interested in chipping in and coming to my apartment for Christmas dinner. Many were, so the game was on. All I had to do was plan the event.

To put everyone in the Christmas mood, I went searching for a tree. The best I could do was find an artificial one that looked like it was on life support. It reminded me of that classic program, A Charlie Brown Christmas. It took seconds to put up and I left it in the hands of a friend to decorate. I guess if you put the right clothes on a skinny runway model with positive results, the right person could make my tree look good – and she did.

I wanted to make sure that everyone had a gift, so I scurried around getting little trinkets that I thought my guests could use.

People were coming to dinner, though. I had to pay attention to the main part of the menu, the turkey.

Just in case you wondered, a turkey isn’t called a turkey in Turkey. It’s a hindi. In Canada, it’s no problem to buy one. In Turkey, it was a bit of a challenge.

I trundled off to the local supermarket to get my bird. It should be noted that I don’t speak Turkish and the butcher didn’t speak English, but I do know that a turkey is a hindi.

I boldly walked up to meat counter and let out a groan, “Hindi.” Like somebody getting his photo for a driver’s licence or passport, this blank, expressionless stare was the response.

Perhaps if I said it louder. “HINDI!” I bellowed with the same result. I paused.

What was the next strategy? As he turned to walk away from this foreigner that seemed to be suffering from gas, I decided to say the word over and over, varying the pitch, expression and pronunciation of the word. “Hindi, hindi, hindi, hindi,” I rattled off in succession. Actually they all sounded the same to me, but one must have clicked. Like a motor starting on a cold morning, his eyes sparked and he nodded, “Ah, hindi!”

To this day I will swear that he said it the same way I said it, but at that moment, I didn’t care. I was marched towards the appropriate aisle in the store where my meal with destiny waited. Like a passenger in a cab, I was dropped off at my desolate destination and left to fend for myself.

There were three birds. Which one was I to choose? Many who go looking for cars lift the hood and look at the motor when they really don’t have a clue what they are doing. That’s me! Well, I’m the same when it comes to hindi. I hefted all three birds, listened for a voice from heaven, as if there might be some sign like the star in the east, and finally decided on one that was slightly over 10 kilograms.

Buying the turkey was only the start of the difficult process. When you rent an apartment in Turkey, unless it is furnished, it is totally empty. I had managed to buy some burners and a fridge, but I didn’t have an oven. A friend of mine, Izzy, told me that a bakery near him had cooked his Thanksgiving turkey for free. I could do the same.

I wandered into the bakery where I usually bought my bread. My only conversation with the owner in the past had been, “Bir ekmek, lutfen,” which means “one bread please.” How was I to explain to him what I needed? When you visit another culture, shyness doesn’t work. I dug deep into my charades background and did my best to convey my message. I don’t know if he thought I was doing the Chicken Dance or what, but I got the drivers’ licence look again. Other customers moved away from me.

I headed over to another bakery where I had bought my birthday cake a month earlier. When I started my dance routine again, the owner held up one finger, rushed out in the street and dragged a surprised young man into the store to see my Vaudeville act. More important, he spoke English. I explained my situation and the owner smiled and took me back to the first bakery. This owner smiled, too, and nodded his head and said, “Hindi.” My problem was solved. I could smell the succulent meat already.

Christmas Day came. To celebrate and look my best for my guests, I decided to get my hair cut. I went to a hair stylist, put my thumb and finger a little apart, and told him to take a little off the top. The clippers swooped down on my head like a combine cutting hay and left a little stubble. I then remembered that he probably didn’t understand English and I had actually told him to cut my hair very short. “Oh well,” I said, “it will grow back.

The next step was to lug the turkey up to the bakery. In case you don’t know, the hills in Istanbul are steep, many of them are like a ski jump. However, the bakery wasn’t far, only about 100 metres, and taking it home would be all downhill.

When I entered the bakery, the owner smiled as I slid the tray onto the counter. Then he frowned. I soon found out why. His oven was for making bread. My hindi wouldn’t fit in the opening.

He started twirling knives, suggesting I could cut the bird so it would fit. To me, that was out of the question.

Both us stood there frozen, but for different reasons.He was trying to figure out what I was trying to say. I had ten guests or so coming in a few hours for a turkey dinner and I didn’t know what to do.

His finger when up. I gasped! He had an idea. Soon he and one of the other employees started punching their cell phones and slamming them into their ear. Actually, the owner had two going at once. Within minutes, he had one of those eureka moments, grabbed me by the arm and we charged outside. He had found another bakery that could perform the deed of cooking my bird.

There was one slight problem. The other place was half a kilometre farther from my apartment. It was all downhill to get there, but getting home would be all uphill. However, there wasn’t any other option. Anyway, I could take a cab home.

We entered into this bakery. The owner took one look at my turkey, laughed and held up four fingers. I was to return later that afternoon. Perfect! Or was it?

At four, I had my rendez-vous with my fowl. It looked and smelled delicious. There was also a lot of grease in the pan. I drained most of it in the street for the chorus of feral cats, then tried hailing a taxi.

I must have looked like a drunk stumbling around with a ten kilogram bird. They whizzed by me as if I didn’t exist. My guests were going to arrive soon, so I had no option but to walk my meal home.

I took one look at the first hill and gulped. It reminded me of a black diamond ski run, but I had to go up it. I pressed on. Half-way up I screamed with a voice that would make a karate instructor proud. My arms were falling off. The local residents were coming to their windows wondering who this strange man was bellowing and walking uphill with a turkey.

I did it! I finally arrived home. My shirt was soaked. Quickly, I put on a dry one, and started preparing for the arrival of my guests. Like the wise men who had arrived at the manger with gifts, I had lugged my turkey from a distant land. Few knew of the sacrifice I had made that Christmas. All that mattered was that the apartment was filled with joy that day.

And so it was. All of the guests pitched in to help where they could. We ate and drank well. We opened the presents and played the silly games one plays at Christmas.

When everyone left, I had a home still warm from the love that had been there and enough leftover turkey to last me for a month.

Each holiday is unique. I know this year will be special, too, but last year will go down in the books as one of the most memorable. I hope yours will be, too. Merry Christmas and may you enjoy your hindi.

The Desert Diary

http://stevensj5.wordpress.com/ I will be going to Saudi Arabia on March 15. If you want to follow my adventures, go to the web site above, find the Follow button, click on it and follow the instructions. This way you will get notified every time I write something new.

My intention is to write something every week, so you won't be inundated with email.

I look forward to seeing you at my blog.