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.

The Journey

I’m driving into the cold dark night
And I’m hoping that the morning light
Will have answers to the questions
That burn my soul
The tires just keep slapping the road
They keep adding weight to my heavy load
I’m hurting and it’s starting to take a toll

I don’t know which is emptier
The gas tank or my heart
I’m heading in no direction at all
Looking for a brand new start

There’s an all-night station open ahead
Man puts in some gas, shirt says his name is Fred
Seems friendly, boy,
Could I use a friend right now
But he goes back to his black and white TV
I’ve paid the bill, so he doesn’t see me
Try to get his attention, I wish that I knew how

I lunge towards the horizon
But it gets farther and farther away
My whole world seems uncertain
I hope it changes with the break of day

I’m following the white syncopated line
I fighting fatigue, but for now I feel fine
The coffee's kicking in, my radio's on
I slap my face to keep awake
My truck plunges through the morning mist
I've been gone for hours, I expect I've been missed
I've left all behind, there was nothing to take.

Still there's freedom coming through the window's crack
I have no possessions, but I've nothing to lack
Just being alive is reason enough
To live life today
And the sun is rising over the hill
I going to survive, I know I will
Even if there was a price to pay

Yes, starting anew is hard
There's little that remains
But better to start again
Than to live your life in chains

The Boxer

"Get up, you suck!" And I would, only to be beaten down again. Again, I would be taunted, "Get up, you suck!" And I would get up again.

Am I talking about bullying in the schoolyard? No, I found out much later in life that the bullies knew better than to threaten me.

This is what happened a few times in my basement. One of my brothers was an amateur boxer. He actually appeared on television once in the 50s. Thus, we had a couple of pairs of boxing gloves stored in our basement. They weren't the actual ones used in fights. They were more like big pillows. Still, a sock to the jaw had a jarring effect.

Once in awhile, my next oldest brother would take me down the basement for a bit of sparring. Honestly, I didn't know why I thought it was a good idea, but I went anyway. When you are a kid, maybe you think everything is going to be fun.

The gloves would be laced on and the routine would begin. I would go down, then get up. I would go down, then get up. This would continue until my mother would put an end to the fight.

Before you start feeling sorry for me, don't. This was a very valuable life lesson, even though it is rather obvious. I am thankful that this happened.

There are many times in life when you are flattened by something. You want to quit. Giving up seems the best and easiest option. Then you get up, sometimes to be flattened again. I learned that failure isn't measured in how many times you fall. It is measured by the one time you don't get up. Maybe you are going through a difficulty. We all do. My words to you? "Get up, you suck!"

My only regret is that I couldn't teach my older brother the same lesson. I'm sure life has taught him some wonderful things, too.

Tickled to Death

Being the youngest of eight children, I was often treated in a manner that was not of my choosing. To me, though, it was all a part of growing up. Each episode became a lesson in life.

This one was cruel. Some of my siblings would often hold me down and tickle me. I'm sure you have done this to a younger brother or sister if you have one. This went well beyond a mere laugh. They would tickle me until I was exhausted. I would be calling out for them to stop and they would continue. I don't know where my mother would have been. She was probably working as a crossing guard or doing something to get money to make ends meet. I just know how helpless I felt in the situation.

As I said, there is always a lesson to be learned.

One day, the tickling ritual was about to be performed again. I was hauled down to the floor from the couch. Their knees were on my shoulders and their hands started a flurry of activity in my mid-section. Nothing. Nothing happened. I had learned how not to be ticklish. Their frenzied activity had no effect. They tried and tried again. I just lay there relaxing.

From that day forward, nobody in my family ever even tried to tickle me. Why would they? I wouldn't respond. Friends have tried, without knowing my story. Still no response. Quite simply, tickling me will not work. Go ahead, try. You will be wasting your effort.

I often get this in the schoolyard. A child will run up to me and say, "Timmy called me a bad name." It even happened today. Yes, I could go to Timmy and tell him to stop doing that. I usually don't. I ask the child whether he thinks it is true or not. If the answer is no, then I ask them to ignore those kinds of comments. It the answer is yes, I assure them that it is an opinion that I don't share. I ask them whom they would rather believe, me or Timmy? My advice is consider the source and ignore it, just like I ignored the tickling.

It is going to happen to you sometime. Learn how not be ticklish about the things that bother you that others say. Don't take the bait. That validates their comments. Just ignore them and they will usually go away.

A Tale of Two Events

Last Friday, I attended a conference at the London Convention Centre called The Power Within. It featured a lot of top speakers, including Anthony Robbins. It would have cost me over $200 to attend, but my wife won the ticket in a raffle.

I didn't know what to expect, however, it was huge. I estimate that about 2,000 people attended. That comes to over $400,000. Wow! Here is what I learned.

If you have done something special and have a good story (having appeared on Oprah helps), then you can make a lot of money. The Power Within seems to be the power to hype people up for one day, make them feel good and send them out the door happy. Like a hangover, the effect may wear off. It did for me.

As I entered the room, speakers throbbed with music from the 70s and 80s. In order to return to your seat, you had to find a landmark. Way up there on the stage was the podium. The people there were like ants. Fortunately, there were big screens with projected video images. Hold it! Do you mean that the experience was similar to sitting at home and watching TV?

All of the speakers had high energy. And so they should. All entered to thunderous standing ovations. Funny, I thought standing ovations were the result of doing something, not for just merely entering a room. I could understand if it was somebody who had been paralysed moments before.

Some had you doing crazy things. Others had you hugging your neighbour or shouting. It was all positive entertainment.

The finale was saved for Anthony Robbins. Like a rock star, he kept the crowd waiting. He also gave the people the impression he was giving more by going over the time limit.

Robbins is an impressive individual. Like a charismatic pastor, he knows how to work the crowd. Unlike a charismatic pastor, his language is something to be desired. If his message is so wonderful, I don't see why he has to throw in words that might be offensive to some. I also had the impression that he blamed poor teachers for the problems in the classroom. Forget about how our society has changed the classroom. Forget about how poor parenting might contribute to the problem. No, it was poor teaching. I have a problem with that.

Now, let's look at another event I didn't attend. Jean Vanier, founder of L'Arch, addressed about 1700 students. Some were moved to tears by what he said. Others were inspired by his message.

What were the differences between the two events? One lasted all day and cost a lot of money to produce. I'm sure the speakers got tremendous fees for their appearances, plus their expenses paid. The other cost a lot less and was a lot shorter. Not being at the student event, I can't tell you about the effectiveness of the message, but it seems to have been wonderful.

This makes me think. Why do we spend oodles of money to discover our power within? Why don't we just walk down the street, meet someone we admire and respect, and ask them their secret to success.

I think the event with Jean Vanier would have been my choice if I hadn't had the free ticket.

A Love Poem

When I look into your eyes
I see your eyes looking at me
With emotion that's always equivalent to mine
It's this perfect balance that draws me so near you
When you hold me so tightly, I'm totally free
Oh let me climb and see all my horizons
Oh set me free to be what I can be
Fill my life up with your loving kindness
But open my eyes first so I'll always see

Though you're so far away
You'll always be near me
Your touch is only a memory away
I feel your heart beating or is it my own
I'm not really sure, it's no difference to me
Let's full up our days with the dreams we believe in
Let's chase the strong winds and always be free
Let's dance to the music that life plays just for us
And transform who we are into who we can be

Riske Business

I always enjoyed being around them. There was something about Ray and Roy Riske that was so inviting. These easy-going dairy farmers just outside of Edmonton, Alberta, who happened to be twin brothers, were no more hospitable than the other rural folk, though. Yet, I found that every time I visited them, I walked away feeling blessed.

Each time I left their home, I marveled at how much better I felt when I left compared to when I arrived. What was their secret?

Like a detective searching for the clue that would break the case, I started analyzing each detail of every visit.

Maybe it was the coffee. It was really good, but not extraordinary. How about the home-made carrot cake their wives had made that day? It was extraordinary, but you will know from attending any local church pot-luck that many women in Alberta create magic in the kitchen. So what was it then?

One day I got into a conversation with Ray and Roy about a vacation I was planning.

"Well, John, where are you going on your vacation?" asked Roy.

"I’m planning on going to Jasper, Lake Louise and Banff." I replied.

"We’ve been there, too, John," chimed Ray, "and you will love it."

"John, how long are you expecting to be away?" demanded Roy.

"Oh, about two weeks," I stated.

"It will be a vacation that you will never forget, John," Ray exclaimed.

I beamed and felt that familiar warmness I always felt when I was with the Riskes.

Suddenly I realized their secret – the magic words that made every person in their presence feel welcome. They are the sweetest words to every living being on the planet. Those words? Your own name!

Ray and Roy had the gift of being able to weave my name into every conversation. By doing so, I was drawn gently into their kind words. I was an important part of the discussion. I had to be. My name was mentioned so often.

Don’t believe me? Try it some time. It has worked for me. I think you will find the results amazing.

The Weather Report

My parents did not communicate well. They didn’t talk about their children. They didn’t talk about the news. The didn’t talk about what needed doing around the house. The seemed to talk only about one thing – the weather.

My father would come home from work and settle into his evening meal. He would take his cup of tea, add sugar and stir it round and round and round for what seemed forever, staring into space. Often somebody would ask him abruptly to stop stirring. Sometimes he would just snap out of it.

Eventually my mother would take her place at the table and the art of saying nothing would commence.

“It was a hot one today,” my father would say.

“Yes, it was,” my mom would reply.

“Got up to 78.” These were the days of Fahrenheit in Canada.

“No it didn’t. It was 77.”

That was it. Their trenches were dug and they would sit and argue about one degree. Never mind that they might have heard the weather report at different times of the day, thus the difference. It didn’t matter that few would be able to tell the difference between 77 and 78 degrees Fahrenheit. What mattered to each one was being right.

As a youngster I vowed to avoid talking about the weather at all possible costs. Sure, I might mention it if we have a blizzard or a tornado, but the everyday occurrence called the weather is really quite boring. Having lived in England, I learned you could have all four seasons in one day, so I simply learned to react to what was happening outside. I didn’t need to pick it apart in conversation.

There’s more to talking about the weather, though. It is an indication that something is wrong when this is what you talk about with a loved one. A whole world is happening out there. It is sad when your commentary on life is reduced to stating the obvious and is measured by degrees Fahrenheit or Celcius. Perhaps it gets a bit more exciting if you measure it in degrees Kelvin.

To Support and Protect

We all know the story of the Boy Scout who helps the old lady across the street, only to find that she didn’t want to cross the street in the first place. There is a valuable lesson to be learned in this.

Like many people, I enjoy Dancing with the Stars. Without exception, the dancing instructors are attractive people. Most of the contestants they dance with are married. They spend hours on end holding each other, often producing rather steamy dance routines. You would think that their wives and husbands would be upset.

What I have also noticed, though, are the spouses of these people cheering their husbands and wives on. The result is that the spouse actually is like a team member, encouraging their mate in something that is important. The trust that I see is stronger than any jealousy. And you know what? Many of the contestants have grown stronger in their relationships because of the support they have received from their families. It’s been sort of like “let’s help my husband or wife look good in front of a national audience.”

Now I know of some spouses who are protective of their wives and husbands. I’m sure their intentions are good, but I feel they don’t quite get what protection is. To them, protection means putting their mate in a cell so nobody can get at them. It’s sort of like the police putting me into jail to protect me from the criminals. What’s wrong with this picture? It’s obvious. The wrong person is being punished, but you know what? Many people feel trapped in this kind of a relationship and don’t know how to break away.

That is why I love the movie Braveheart. The hero is protecting the rights of his people, but not by hiding them or putting them behind a wall. He puts himself in the front line, willing to defend them against the foe. He risks his life to fight for their right to be free. He doesn’t limit their freedom, like many do and give it the name protection.

Give me a break. How can you limit the freedom of somebody and call it love? I have heard the analogy of how a person perceives his love as a precious jewel and is trying to protect it. If you keep your emerald locked in a jewellery box, it isn’t doing what it was designed to do. I want to show off my jewels. I want people to see how they sparkle. If I am constantly worrying about somebody stealing them, though, it would be better for me to have coal.

To start, like the old lady with the Boy Scout, the spouse should determine if their mate wants to be protected and what form of protection that should take. What do I mean?

The way I see it, I would rather provide protection by being a shelter in the storm for my love. However, if my woman asks me to provide protection, like Braveheart, I will be in front of her fighting for her freedom, not hiding her away and limiting it. Preventing your spouse from doing something isn’t giving love, it is taking love away, and it is a selfish love. It is not thinking of the other person. It is thinking of you.

I learned long ago that the way to keep somebody at your side is to give her so much that she would be a fool to leave. If you have a match where both are doing this, it is heaven on earth. It’s as simple as that, but it’s not that simple.

Have I got it all right? Absolutely not! I don’t pretend to have all of the answers. I have gotten many things wrong. However, life never stops teaching me. One lesson that comes to mind is the saying, “If you set a bird free and it comes back to you, it is yours. If it flies away, it never was.” If I want the maximum from a partner, I better be prepared to support her in their quest to be the best she can be, not pretend to protect her and limit her passion for life.

The War Veteran

We were on a boat between Dover and Oostende, Belgium. It was 1973. A pretty girl approached. He was on the left. I was on the right. As she passed us, our eyes finally met. Our mutual appreciation for beauty was our instant bond. Even though I was in my early 20s and he was over 60, our crudest of instincts brought us together.

“She’s a real cracker,” he said. I had to agree and went over to introduce myself.

His name was James Lucas and he was head of the photo archives at the Imperial War Museum in London.

He was on his way for a reunion of World War II veterans in Germany. After the war, it seems that all differences were put aside. Soldiers in all armies could meet and swap their stories.

We went for dinner on the boat and over the meal he mentioned that he had written several books about the war. His stories were entertaining. He told them with an amazing attention to detail. I was interested because I had read many books about the war. I had also watched many documentaries and films.

Then I asked a question. There has been so much written about World War II. Is there a story that hasn’t been told? This was his reply.

While many Jews were sent to the death camps, many escaped Germany into England. They spoke fluent German, of course.

At that time Rommel was having his way in northern Africa, inflicting many casualties on the Allies. He was such a clever tactician. Nobody seemed able to defeat him.

Somebody got the idea of creating a phony German battalion with these Jews. Months were spent preparing them for the battle. They would pose as the German army and then, at the proper moment, turn on Rommel and his troops.

There was one problem. Somebody leaked the plan to the Nazis.

When these British-trained troops arrived in the Sahara, Rommel knew all about them. Like lambs, they were led to the slaughter. I don’t recall Jim mentioning any survivors.

When I returned to London, I dropped in on Jim at the Imperial War Museum. He gave me a tour of what had once been the mental institution called Bedlam. Of particular interest was what had been the chapel. He mentioned that this is the only time men and women were allowed to be together. For many, attending church was an event to look forward to, but not necessarily for religious reasons.

Through the years I have wondered about Jim. I recently found out he died in 2002. He gave me an insight of war that few have been able to tell me. I wish I had had the opportunity of pulling one more story out of him.

In Every Teardrop There's a Rainbow

In every teardrop there's a rainbow
In every life a little pain
For every day of sunshine
There has to be some rain
Take seeds of happiness
In your garden you will sew
They will die with constant sunshine
They need rain to make them grow
When you're going through the dark times
And you think your life is through
Soon the storm clouds will be parted
And the sun will shine for you.

In every teardrop there’s a rainbow
That brings hope for future days
In you my hope is founded
In a million different ways
Just to see your joyful smile
And feel your gentle touch
Makes my life suddenly worthwhile
Though I miss you very much
Even though the rain is falling
The clouds will eventually go away
And it’s your name I am calling
And I expect we’ll have our day

Education and wisdom

She had a grade 6 education. He finished grade 8. My parents didn’t go very far in school. Even though she was the less educated of the two, my mother taught me the most.

She taught me that when the hour seems the darkest, that is when you just keep on going. There were a few times when raising 8 children with little support from her husband left her exhausted. I remember a few times seeing her crying on Saturday night, the night she did her accounting, and wondering where the money to pay the bills was coming from. Yet, she kept on and never gave up.

My mom taught me to try things you may not be familiar with, but to quit if you know in your heart it isn’t for you. My brother and I used to go on the street to play hockey with a tennis ball, one being the forward and the other being the goalie. Then he got interested in girls and started dating. On a lonely Saturday night, my mom volunteered to come outside and be the goalie. You see, she was willing to try. However, she knew when to quit. After a few shots, one went a bit high and hit her in the mouth, almost causing her to swallow her false teeth. Her dream of playing the nets for the Leafs was over.

Another lesson in life was that sometimes you have to go so low that everything looks better because it is. I remember feeling lonely and in despair. When this happened, she would prepare a pot of tea, break the leaves, pour it in my cup and read the tealeaves. She would weave a delightful story of how I would receive a letter soon and meet a stranger who would do something special in my life. And it usually would happen, not necessarily because of her talents, but you just tended to receive letters once in awhile in those days and you did meet new people now and again. What she did, though, was plant a seed of hope in the situation that encouraged me to keep at it.

My mother was unusual. She had every right to be. As I said, raising eight children pretty much on herself amid the clicking tongues of the neighbourhood. People often called us those Stevens, not the Stevens. She taught me that it is who you are that is important, not your circumstances. Whatever you do, never lose yourself and don’t ever let anybody take you from you. I’m sure there were times when she would have liked to have had a higher social position, but that never affected how high she held her head. She did her best and she was proud of that.

She always had a saying for everything. They could be summed in “a little bit of praise goes a long way.” She was far from perfect, but what she lacked in perfection, she made up in originality.

Finally, she taught me the difference between education and wisdom. She encouraged me to stay in school and get a university degree. While she had no idea what an education would do for me, she was fully aware that not having one would limit the choices you have in life. To understand that takes wisdom.

She had little education; she had a lot of wisdom.

Music and Lyrics and Dance

Since I’ve met you, the music has been there
It’s obvious there is something special that we share
Our destination? Babe, I really don’t know where
But let’s add the lyrics and dance

I love you and my heart is so on fire
And you know, it is only you who I desire
The tune is sweet and its melody inspires
So let’s add the lyrics and dance

As we sway to and fro to our special love song
We’ll hold each other close and know that we are strong
And you’ll know in my arms is where you naturally belong
When we add the lyrics and dance

Years from now, when we look upon this time
We’ll laugh and cry remembering this little rhyme
How it helped us through our uphill climb
Because we added the lyrics and danced

How do you look at it?

The difference between winning and losing can hang on a delicate thread.

Those who have followed this blog faithfully will know that I have enjoyed softball very much. I have been an Ontario champion three times and a finalist twice. I have also been an Alberta champion and a finalist once.

In every case, each team was capable of winning the championship. All of these teams had talented players.

What I noticed through the years was the attitude we adopted before playing in the final series.

When we won, we concentrated on how we were going to win.

When we lost, we focused on not trying to lose.

Now, you might say that not losing and winning are the same thing. When you are talking about your state of mine, they aren’t however. One anticipates victory. The other doesn’t.

My Grade 7 Gym Teacher

Inspiration comes in many shapes and sizes. He was a gym teacher who helped shape me into the person I am today.

From the very beginning, it was very clear that there was no nonsense with him. At our very first gym class, he worked us like race horses. By the end of the period, we were drenched in sweat. Then came the order, “Everybody into the showers.” My family was modest, very modest, yet I didn’t hesitate to obey. Today, this wouldn’t happen. I don’t think students take showers at all, yet I remember feeling fresh in class after a good workout. In fact, one teacher mentioned to the class that he preferred my coming late to class after gym, because I didn’t contribute to the stink like the others.

While this was an important moment in my life, getting over the fear of being naked in a crowd, he did something that changed my life even more.

One day he came into health class and announced to everyone that he was creating the Fat Boys’ Club. It would meet at the same time as the gymnastics club at 8 am on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Membership was not voluntary. In fact, there were only two people who were going to have the privilege of being in this club, me and Alan.

I remember the moment when my name was announced. I felt like a searchlight had been shone upon me. I wanted to escape, but there was nowhere to go. I just sat there, stunned and hiding the hurt and shame as best I could.

Dutifully, I showed up each morning at the appointed time. Alan did, too. My mom asked me why I was going so early. I mumbled something about gymnastics, not wanting to let my mom know what the truth was.

Then puberty hit.

I remember the period that he put all the mats on the floor and the whole class participated in what could be best called group sumo wrestling. Bodies were flung off the mats until there were only two people, me and Steve. Steve was one of the tough guys in the school. I, definitely, was not. However, I was a tad smarter and got him into a position where I could thrust him off the mats. Everyone stood in shock, but none more than my gym teacher. I remember just glaring at him, not in hatred, but with immense satisfaction.

For gymnastics, he decided to show us how to do a neck spring off the side horse. He needed a volunteer. Why he chose me I’m not sure. I am not good at gymnastics. I ended up in a heap on the floor. Again, I just glared at him.

I tried out for the foot ball team. He was the coach.

There were just enough uniforms for everyone, except one of the pants had two left kidney pads, which meant one protruded awkwardly from side and didn’t really do the job. I was the one who got these pants.

Our team colours were red and white, but we didn’t have enough red sweaters. Some of us had to wear blue ones with sleeveless red t-shirts over top. I was always one of those selected.

My position was substitute centre. I had to play against people who weighed at least 20 pounds more than I did. I would snap the ball and be smashed back 5 yards or so. I remember learning how to do a cross-body block. I can tell you that it isn’t very effective against tanks. I’m sure you could see the cleat marks on my sweater.

In practice, we played a game called train. Two people ran towards each other and the one with the ball was supposed to run over the other player, who was supposed to tackle the runner. I don’t know how it happened, but I always seemed to get the big guys on the team. I felt that I had to tackle wild elephants time after time. And I did, but the gym teacher didn’t approve. Something didn’t impress him, so I kept on getting more of the same, except once. Somehow Jim, the quarterback, got in the line and faced me. Being used to tackling the wild gorillas, I stuck it to him good and cracked 3 of his ribs.

Many years later at a softball team reunion, Jim told me that the gym teacher asked him if he help him understand who I was. He said he had been doing everything possible to try to get me to quit the team, but I just kept coming back for more. I refused to give up.

One day the gym teacher wasn’t at the morning football practice. The other gym teacher was. We just had a game of touch football. I caught three touchdown passes. It was obvious I was in the wrong position at substitute centre, however, nothing changed with this. We found out later my tormentor was forced to quit. Apparently he got into a little trouble with the law.

In case you wondered, Alan, the other Fat Boys’ Club member, is now a successful lawyer. I, too, have led a very interesting life.

I think a lot of people would understand if I talked about how being put in the Fat Boys’ Club destroyed me. Don’t get me wrong, it did hurt. I was humiliated in front of my classmates at an age where you are sensitive about your appearance. I chose to take that hurt and stand up and conquer it. There are times when defeat just isn’t an option. This was one of them. And I am so much stronger for the experience. You see, in life you are going to find situations where people don’t treat you well. Often, like this case, you will have no idea why. You can choose to be powerless or to do something about it, but you have to make that choice.

You may be thinking

You may be thinking I'm rushing things
You may be thinking I'm going too fast
Though timing isn't my strength right now
Whatever I've got will last

You may be wondering just who I am
You may be saying that you don't know me
I don't know you, but I know one thing
My loving is quality

And just like crazy glue
I'm stuck on you
The bond never breaks
As long as it takes
As long as you can start it
You can't pull apart it
Hold on to me dear
I'll hold on to you

I may be thinking too much right now
And seeing right now as a time in the past
But can't you see that I'm in love with you
And whatever I've got will last.

Things must change

No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.
Eleanor Roosevelt, 'This Is My Story,' 1937

They are spat upon. They are sworn at. They are physically assaulted. They are victims of the Internet. They are threatened. They are treated with great indignity.

Who are these people? Teachers.

I have met many teachers in my life. As an occasional teacher, I go from school to school. Almost without exception, teachers are some of the most dedicated workers in any profession. Most of them want to help make the world a better place.

So what’s the problem? In many classes and many schools, there isn’t much of a problem at all. However, in some there is a huge problem.

To start, parenting skills in today’s society are sadly lacking. Again, it may be a minority, but put two or three kids in a room who have no respect for authority and everyone suffers. In some cases, the kids rule the classroom or the school. Why? The teacher has little power to deal with the situation. Often, the principal and the administration above provide very little support.

In Ontario, a child can do absolutely nothing and be promoted to the next grade. There is no such thing as failure. There is no such thing as a late assignment. What skills are we teaching our children for the working world?

Really, should there be schools where there are armed police at the entries? What have we allowed to happen to our society?

So how do teachers cope with the situation? Just like some parents, they try to be friends with the students instead of friendly. Sometimes they become too close of a friend. Sometimes they quit.

What can be done? We have to teach students that there are consequences to actions, good and bad. If you don’t do the work, then you have an option. You can repeat the year or spend part of the summer doing the work you didn’t do during the year. The student can pick the poison, but there is a consequence for poor work.

Secondly, teachers need to draw a line in the sand and stand together. If something wrong happens in a colleague’s class, then it happens to everyone. The attitude of gratitude that it isn’t happening to you must go. The staff at a school must act as a team. If it means filing a protest, going to the media or refusing to teach, something must be done to let everyone know that there is a problem. The response has to be calculated and well thought out to prevent a wrong impression or a backlash, but something must be done. Teachers just can’t sit and take it any longer.

Most teachers belong to a union. It needs to get involved to protect its members. It seems more occupied with protecting rights of fringe groups than protecting the majority of its members. It’s not that minority rights aren’t important, but there are higher priorities. Providing a positive climate for teaching is one of them.

Parents need to get more involved in schools. If you are a parent, how do you feel that another parent’s kid is robbing yours of a good education and an opportunity to lead a fruitful life? If you don’t like it, what are you going to do about it? You are an important part of the equation. The parents of the trouble makers are often in denial, just like alcoholics, and blame the teachers for their kids’ attitude.

Hoping the situation will go away by itself just isn’t a good option any more.

Read the first paragraph after the quote again. What profession would allow its clients to treat its members this way? Lawyers wouldn’t. Doctors wouldn’t. Heck, bag boys at the local grocery store wouldn’t. The only two that come to mind are prison guards and soldiers. And, believe it or not, there are many similarities to people who work in these institutions and some schools.

Why not hug a teacher today? Oops, that’s not allowed in the schools anymore, either, as much as they need affirmation that they are doing a good job in spite of it all.

There’s one born every minute

Spam! We all hate it, but we all get it. There must be a reason people keep sending it out. There must people who actually believe some of the garbage that comes across their desk. Maybe it is true.

Maybe there is somebody who made millions by helping some Nigerian, Chinese or other person get money out of their country.

I imagine there is somebody out there who had university degrees from institutions all over the world.

These might be the same people who profited from a scheme Bill Gates cooked up to give them money if they forwarded a message to all their friends. They did it on the Dell computer they got for free for doing a similar deed.

Of course, there are the people who have made a killing on the stock market with the timely advice they have received from some unknown expert. They earn their money from the Sydney Car Care Specialist people.

Finally, there is some soul out there who has responded to every ad on how to satisfy every woman in the world. His penis is about 3 metres long and he has learned every technique in the book.

It’s funny, but there are people who are arguing that the Internet must stay totally free of control. I’m sure that they feel the same way about trying to limit pollution. That is what spam is. I remember the good old days in the 1980s when few people had email. The only messages you got were those from people you knew.

Anyway, for those of you who send me messages encouraging me to send messages on if I love Jesus or I want my wish to come true or I don’t want something bad to happen, I don’t do it. Before you send me something for a worth cause or a missing child or somebody wanting postcards, check it out. How difficult is it to put “internet” and “hoax” in a search engine and look at the result? It must be very difficult, because some very intelligent people get caught all the time.

Oh, by the way, copy this message and send it to 10 people and your wish will come true in 10 minutes.