Buying Your Way Into Heaven

What if you could buy your way into heaven? Wouldn’t it be wonderful? The people with the most money would be assured of a great afterlife.

But hold it! Some people would have an advantage. If they were born into a rich family to start with, that wouldn’t be fair.

And what about the people who came by their money through dishonest methods? Perhaps they might have stolen it or duped others from the money they could have used to pay for their salvation. Would you want these kinds of people in heaven?

What about those who are filthy rich but are selfish? Perhaps they spend nothing on those less fortunate than they are. They have beautiful homes, yachts, expensive cars and other worldly possessions.

On the flip side, what about the poor? Is it their fault that they are poor? Shouldn’t they be given a chance, too?

So being able to buy yourself into heaven doesn’t sound like a great idea. What about doing good? That sounds better.

How do you define what is good? For example, Bill Gates probably does a lot more good than I do. Hold it! He has a lot more money to do philanthropic work. And now that he is retired from Microsoft, he has much more time.

What about those who have suffered terrible abuse and hardship? How do we judge the broken-hearted and discouraged? How do we be fair about being good? It is a lot easier being good when everything is working out for you.

So, how do you give everyone the opportunity of going to heaven? You figure it out.

Terry Fox

There are moments in time we remember. They are stamped on our brains, never to leave.

Those of us who are old enough know where we were and what we were doing when President Kennedy was assassinated. Hockey fans can relive Paul Henderson’s goal in the Canada/Russia series in the final game in 1972.

I was reminded today of another vivid moment in my life. The school where I was teaching had its annual Terry Fox Day. It brought to me the recollection of my hearing about his death.

I was on an airplane heading towards Winnipeg in 1981. We were over Thunder Bay when the pilot came on and announced that he had died. The cabin became instantly silent. It remained that way for quite some time. I remember feeling rather empty. We were near the place where he was forced to give up his quest to run across Canada with one artificial leg for cancer, the disease that claimed his life.

Although he didn’t reach his goal, I don’t think anybody would call him a failure. Many regard him as a hero. I don’t. I put him in a class by himself. He was simply Terry Fox. That’s all I have to say.

He certainly was a pioneer. He set out to do something when nobody else had done anything else like it. Others have since emulated his feat for various causes.

What made him so special was that he wasn’t doing it to draw attention to himself. He did it because he felt it should be done. My memory of his run was that it didn’t get much publicity at all in the beginning. It sort of grew as he lurched from community to community.

In 1999, while on a contract with our Department of Foreign Affairs, I became quite aware of the impact he had on our country. As I travelled around the world, I found out that the embassies I worked in all had a Terry Fox Run.

Will there be Terry Fox Days years from now? I hope so. It isn’t often that somebody who dared to dream without any expectation of personal gain comes along. He touched the lives of many, including me.

Yolanda

I grew up in a time when political correctness did not exist. Sometimes I think it was a blessing. Sometimes others hurt people without reason.

There is one incident that happened when I was in elementary school that I still bristle with shame.

Her name was Yolanda Sacco. She had come with her parents to Canada from Italy. She still spoke English with an Italian accent. Unlike most of us, pale as a bed sheet on the clothesline in winter, she had a beautiful olive skin. Her dark eyes seemed on fire. Her hair was long, wavy and dark like coal. I thought she was very beautiful, but she wasn’t like we were. She didn’t even dress the same.

Just like today, kids in the schoolyard pick on others. The weak try to find somebody even weaker and try to feel superior. Yolanda was at the bottom of the chain when it came to being teased. Kids of all ages would run towards her and yell out that they didn’t want to get her kooties. It took me years to find out what kooties really were, lice.

Of course she didn’t like it! Who would? Her reaction to every barb was thrown her way was like a bull pierced by the spears in an arena. She would charge wildly after the tormentor, only to miss time and time again. This only augmented the taunting.

One day I joined in the frenzy. I delighted in seeing this creature thrash about like a fish caught on a hook. My nostrils flared with the feeling of power I had evoking such passionate fury out of Yolanda.

The recess bell rang and everybody returned to class.

My mother was the crossing guard at this school. I would usually be home by the time she returned.

When she came in the door, she asked, “What happened to Yolanda today?”

“Why?” I replied.

“When she crossed the road tonight she was sobbing as if she didn’t have a friend in the world. Do you know what happened?”

My mother was pretty perceptive. I somehow knew she knew that I was one of the ones who had crushed Yolanda’s spirit so much.

I would love to say that this story had a happy ending. It would be nice to tell you that I went up to Yolanda, apologized and that we became good friends. That didn’t happen. I wish it had.

The best I can do is admit my mistake, learn from it and, as I often do, send out a silent prayer on her behalf, hoping that she has experienced happiness beyond her expectations.

And yes, I would love the opportunity to meet her again and ask her forgiveness to her face for what I did. By not doing this at that time, I lost out on being able to grow in this experience.

The Sports Networks?

All of them are guilty. Not one of them is exempt. They call themselves sports networks, yet they continually show poker. It is bad enough that they show professional wrestling, which is anything but sport.

Tell me, what conditioning do poker players have to go through to be top competitors? None. Oh, I’m sure that some of them will tell how they work out and eat a special diet to stay sharp, but it is a game of chance. I would rather watch a game of Trivial Pursuit than watch people I don’t know do something I have no control over.

Seriously, I could get a bunch of friends over, have them dress up as different characters, videotape the game and sell it. It might even be better if I scripted it like WWE wrestling. Why would I do that? So the most popular player would win most of the time, thus increasing the television ratings. How can we be sure that this isn’t happening already?

There are several good reasons I consider television poker a waste of time.

The first is that you can get your poker fix anytime you want on the Internet.

Next, poker is gambling. Many people are getting hooked on it and the result is that lives and families are being ruined.

But the best reason of all is that we are becoming a sedentary nation. Why? One reason is our glorification of activities that don’t require any sweat.

Remember the Olympics just a month ago? Many of us were glued to our television sets watching athletes compete for glory. Do you think that they hibernate for the next four years and emerge again for the next Olympics? No, there are competitions everywhere for them. If the competitions aren’t televised already, then the sports networks could do so.

I think it is time for the Canadian Radio and Television Commission to look at what sports networks are offering the public. Are they encouraging Canadians to get out of their armchairs and become fitter or are they doing the opposite? By the amount of poker I see, I think it is the latter.

ESL Students

If you ever want to gain an appreciation for your country, teach a class in English as a second language. It will change the way you think about Canada (in my case).

Quite often people in our countries become angry with immigrants. If you take the time to find out their stories, you will gain a new appreciation for them. I will tell you two.

She was a doctor in Columbia. Her husband was a lawyer, and a successful one – too successful. It seems he won a case against the wrong people. Their response was to murder him.

When the note appeared at her door that she was next, she fled to Canada. She is studying English, and hopes one day to be a doctor again, but it is starting all over.

The first thing you notice about her is her smile. Like many others, she is happy to be in Canada. The cold winters are not welcome, but the political climate and freedoms warm the soul.

Next, meet a woman from Afghanistan. She lived there before the Taliban took control. Still, as a youngster, girls were not encouraged to go to school. Her family moved to Iran, but she says that foreigners were not treated very well there.

She and her husband eventually returned to Afghanistan. The Taliban was in control by then. Her husband was thrown in prison for reasons they still don’t know. Eventually he was released and he fled to Russia. She took off to Canada with her six children.

She hasn’t seen her husband in eight years. The last time she talked to him on the telephone was six months ago. She has had to make her way in a strange country with different customs and provide for her children.

She told me her oldest daughter finished high school with a 92% average. It’s funny, but when you see some of the top students in schools, they are often people who have come from another country.

It is as if people from abroad see the opportunity in Canada that others don’t see. Like runners who train at a high altitude, their hardships at home prepare them for success when they are faced with better conditions.

There are bad apples in every crop, but the vast majority of ESL students I have met appreciate Canada in a way few Canadians do. Not only that, they encourage me to overcome any difficulties I might think I have. They inspire me.

A Good Boy?

I was reading the Toronto Star the other day. The story was about a 23-year-old who had been shot.

The article said, “The men demanded drugs and cash he was carrying and (he) was shot point-blank when he refused to deliver, a source said.”

Later on an uncle is quoted as saying, “If kids are bad, you can always see the symptoms, but not with him. He was a good guy.”

Sometimes there is nothing blinder than love. It can make you ignore the symptoms.

An acquaintance said, “He was always laughing, always happy. He was a really good guy.”

I don’t want to be misunderstood here. I am sad when anyone has to die, but I am concerned when we start labelling drug dealers as good guys. People who make their living by ruining the lives of others are not good people. It doesn’t matter how much they laugh, how much they are kind to their families, how they may spend their money on others.

I hope this is a case where the family is just painting the best possible picture of the person to help them cope.

Unfortunately, too many people overlook the bad in their children and immediately label them as good. I have heard many of them say, “He’s really a good kid,” when the child has made some horrible choices in life.

Although not people, my dogs can provide a good example. They are not good all the time. Here’s the difference, though. I recognize when they are bad and I do what I can to correct it. If I didn’t do that, I wouldn’t really love them. We have a great relationship as a result. They are very happy and so am I.

Why are we so afraid to do this with people?

And I am speaking from experience here. Somebody I know was taking and dealing drugs. We got somebody to help by intervening. We dealt with the situation, eventually getting him to a clinic in the States. We didn’t idly sit by and talk about how good he was. He wasn’t, but we loved him enough to do what was necessary to give him the option of turning his life around. Fortunately, he grabbed the lifeline that was thrown to him.

Yes, there is good in everyone, but when the bad covers it you have to recognize it so it can be dealt with.

Finally, there are consequences to our actions. The fact that this young man was dealing drugs was the cause of his brutal death. The uncle in the story asks, “Why would anyone want to harm this young guy?” The answer is right in front of his face, yet it seems he refuses to see it.

The Scratch

Nobody’s perfect. I prove that every day. In fact, I really showed my humanity the other day.

We are looking to buy a new car. We don’t want to put any more money into the ones we have right now. I decided to take one out for a test drive.

The salesperson went along with me. I really liked the way it handled. We came back to the dealership and I wanted to see how easy it was to park, so I backed it up into its original spot – almost.

Crash! I misjudged just a bit and backed into a light standard. I suffered from embarrassment. My main concern, though, was I might have gotten the salesperson into hot water.

She said that she would talk it over with her boss and get back to me. I insisted that I go along with her to own up to my error. He wasn’t there, but two other representatives came out to look at the damage. I told them that it was entirely my mistake and to let me know what I could do to correct it.

I found out today what I can do to correct it. I paid for the repair. It came to just over $300. I immediately went to the dealership and put it on my credit card.

After I got over my initial feelings about the incident, I laughed about it. Why? I figured it was better to chuckle over my mistake than get upset about it. There was nothing I could do to reverse it, and nobody was hurt, so I decided to count my losses and move on with a smile. This attitude made everybody feel better about the damage and eased any tension that might have existed about the situation.

As I got to thinking about the accident a bit more, I realized that the $300 that I forked out could actually be a good investment. While I sincerely wish I hadn’t backed into the pole, a lot of good could actually come out of it.

Think about it. I admitted my mistake immediately and took full responsibility for it. I mentioned that it was not the fault of the sales representative. I know at least the salesperson appreciated my attitude. My guess is that the others who came with me to inspect the damage felt the same way. There is no telling how many others they will influence if the subject of my character comes up.

When the bill came, I didn’t question it. I calmly went in, paid it and laughed about the mistake I had made. There was a time in my life that I might have been really upset over having to pay for this. Not now.

We may eventually buy a car from this dealership. What kind of customer would they like to negotiate a sweet deal with, one who tries to push blame away from himself or one who admits his mistake? I’m the guy who didn’t try to stiff them with paying for the damage. I have earned their trust through my words and actions. At the very least, I know I have their respect and that is worth a lot more than $300 to me.

Yes, good can actually come from bad. Often it is the perspective you take on it, not the circumstances themselves, which may be bad.

And finally, I learned one other thing. When it comes to getting the car in and out of the tight parking spaces on car lots, let the staff do it.

A Close Shave

When I worked with Softball Canada, I remember an occasion where I heard that an umpire attending a national championship tried to sue the association. We had a strict policy that umpires could not have beards and this gentleman sported one. He was claiming that he was being discriminated against.

The case was thrown out of court. Here’s why.

The umpire-in-chief at the time was a man by the name of Ed Bitz. He told the judge that the umpire was aware of the rule before he arrived at the national championship.

As umpire-in-chief, his job was to judge the umpires. It is important that they are neat in appearance. Shoes had to be shined. No jewellery could be worn, mainly for safety reasons. Pants, shirts, shoes and socks had to be a certain colour.

At least a couple of reasons were behind these rules. First, there were usually at least two umpires on the field. It gave them more authority if they looked the same. Second, on a close call, like a policeman, a neat umpire would be able to “sell” the call better.

The beard is considered part of this philosophy. Bitz’s reasoning was that he had to make the judgement of when a beard was considered too scruffy or not. He found that the simplest way was to determine this was to draw the line at the skin – in other words, no beard. Otherwise, when would a beard be deemed to be unacceptable?

With many of today’s issues, we face the same problem. Where do we draw the line in the sand or when does a beard become too scruffy? It doesn’t matter what the discussion is, your level of tolerance to any issue will be different than mine. Then what do we do? How do we agree to disagree?

In my blog, I have given my opinion on a number of topics. I don’t expect everyone to have exactly the same view as I do.

Like television in the 1950s, years ago things tended to be more black and white. Today, there are so many colours. Perhaps this is good, but the result can be that there are so many variables that society doesn’t have any values at all. Anything goes. Where does that leave us? I wonder. I long for the simple solution that Ed Bitz had on beards. The easiest place to draw the line was at the face.

Family

I come from a remarkable family. There were eight children. Each one of us is different. We can have eight different viewpoints on any subject. When we get together the conversation flows like an eggbeater.

When we were younger, we used to fight a lot. When I say fight, I don’t mean those little tussles. Life was pretty violent. On one occasion my sister and brother both had to go the hospital for stitches.

Part of the problem back then was that there were ten of us living in a house with only three small bedrooms. I remember studying in university what happened to rats when you put too many with in a confined space. I could have skipped that class. I already knew that they fought from personal experience.

Some of my classmates used to invite their friends home after school. I tried it a couple of times, but it didn’t work. Adding another person to an already crowded house made matters worse.

Did I have it bad? I didn’t think so. Growing up in a home like that, I figured that what I experienced was normal. Something was always happening. There were few dull moments.

As we all grew older, a strange thing has happened. We have grown much, much closer.

My pen pal came to visit from Belgium this summer. She remarked how ideal my family seemed. It seems hers siblings are distancing themselves from each other.

Perhaps having shared such a unique experience binds us together. Really, I wouldn’t trade my family for any other. I feel that I can share them with anyone.

For example, Tony, a friend, may be coming over tomorrow to do some carpentry work. Some of my family is visiting for a few days. I know that they will welcome him as if they have known him for years. Of course, I will be the brunt of their teasing, but I’m used to that.

I have come to realize that it I am quiet fortunate to have the family I have. This isn’t just my brothers and sisters. It flows down to my nephews and nieces.

As they say, you can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your family. I think I won the lottery concerning family. We aren’t perfect, but we are special. The adversity we shared together when we were younger, I think, has brought about a bonding that will last. Had we had it easier, I'm not so sure if we would be that close.

The Best Sermon Ever

I have attended a few churches through the years. When I worked in television on Sunday mornings, I had to endure about seven sermons. I have heard about every slant on Christianity going on out there and in many different styles. Of all the sermons I have heard, there is one that stands out as the best.

Norm Anderson delivered it when I lived in Edmonton. His style was often to pick a passage from the Bible and explain how it could be applied to everyday life. On that particular day he didn’t pick a passage. He didn’t even pick a whole verse. The whole message was comprised of only eight words.

“For God so loved the world, he gave …”

Until that moment I had a Hollywood idea of love. It was all warm, fuzzy and gushy. It involved a lot of words. Saying “I love you!” was so meaningful, especially if you said it with passion, exhaling as you delivered the line.

I learned that day that too many people look for love, the noun, instead of practising love, the verb. A precious love is not something you have. It is not something you make. It is something you give.

I can say, “I love you!” millions of times, and there is nothing wrong with doing that, but if I give nothing to show it, then my words are meaningless.

Norm talked about how really giving meant that you didn’t expect anything in return. If you expected something, then you were bartering. It also is not giving what you have in abundance, either. There are too many men out there with trophy wives. They can be lavish in their giving, because they have lots to give. No, true giving is giving something precious. The ultimate giving, thus, the ultimate love, is giving your life to somebody. Loving is not about me. It is about somebody else.

We all need to receive love, but if we want to be the best lovers out there, it is all in the delivery, not the receiving, of this precious commodity.

I think circumstances sometime make it difficult to practise love. I think of Goksel, a friend in Turkey. Regardless of a few years of not hearing from her, I have recently made contact and found that her lack of correspondence has been due to the fact that she has been grieving the death of her husband. My love for her certainly has been dormant through this period of time, but I never gave up. I will be the best friend I can be, but the distance will make it difficult. Also, my ability to give love will be influenced by her willingness to be in contact with me and to communicate. Before you get the wrong idea, I am not talking about romantic love. I am describing a love that thinks of the other person first.

Regardless, loving all comes down to giving, according to Norm Anderson. You know what? I think he was right.

Do you know somebody who needs encouragement right now? Is there a friend who is on your mind? Reach out and touch them. Give them your love. Don’t just tell them. Make your love an action verb, not a noun.

A Day of Rest

I just realized that I just finished my 366th entry into my blog. That is over a year's worth of writing. I am celebrating by taking the day off, except for this short message.

To start, it is difficult to write something interesting every day.

One concern about putting your thoughts and emotions out there for all to see is that people will either a) think you are some sort of a kook because of them, b) get upset at you because they disagree with your position on a certain subject c) think that what I have to say is not very important or boring, and d) all of the above.

My other concern is that I really have no idea who is reading what I am writing. Sure, once in awhile somebody mentions that they read something. I appreciate any comments I receive. Most of the time I feel like an actor on the stage with nobody in the audience.

But I still write on, not really sure if this journey will take me anywhere, but enjoying the view.

Anyway, this was supposed to be a day off, yet I have written something. I hope anyone reading this will be blessed by something I have done.

Bagpipes

When I worked on television, I loved working on remote broadcasts. It meant getting out of the humdrum of the day-to-day routine. The hours were usually long and on a weekend, meaning lots of overtime. Since I was making just over $100 per week at the time, the extra money was useful.

At the time CKCO in Kitchener did a lot of events outside the station. I have never seen a place that did more parades than we did. One year we covered three Santa Claus Parades. You think the kids would have caught on that Santa didn’t look exactly the same in all three. Mix in an Oktoberfest Parade and an agricultural parade in Brantford and you get the idea.

I was pretty excited when I was asked if I wanted to do the Fergus Highland Games. Excited? I was ecstatic – that is until I experienced the actual event.

We arrived to the sound of bagpipes. We had coffee to the sound of bagpipes. During lunch, we were serenaded by, well, bagpipes. Bagpipes, bagpipes, bagpipes all day long! They never stopped.

When I got home, I could still hear them. They permeated my dreams.

Now I can only take bagpipes in small doses. The sound is similar to a cat in pain. I swear that there are only five tunes that you can play on this instument.

The only problem is that we Canadians love them. A soldier dies in Afghanistan and we hear the television news report at the funeral. How does it open? The sound of bagpipes. I don’t want to be misunderstood here. I am sad that somebody has died. It’ just gets to be a bit monotonous when every item on the same subject starts the same way.

If people are led into a building, somebody wearing a kilt squeezing the blessed bag escorts them. Politicians love it. They feel it gives them a regal entry, I guess. The Canadian Baseball Hall of Fame does it. We lead the students down to our storytelling festival under the influence of the pipes. Many have them at weddings. If there is any event that Canadians don’t think will be embellished by the sound of bagpipes? Sometime I don’t think so.

I ask you to consider this. Canada considers itself a multi-cultural country. Whole neighbourhoods are devoted to people from various nations. When the World Cup of soccer is on, many eyes are glued to the television sets even though Canada has only been at the event once, I believe. Why? Because no matter what teams are playing, many Canadians consider it their team.

Since we have so many cultures close to our hearts, why to we always seem to pick the Scottish when it comes to parading people around? Are we immune to a good brass band? How about playing sitars, balalykas or alpenhorns? Please play anything except the bagpipes for me. They are simply too cliché.

9-11

There are very few people in the world who don’t know what I mean by the title of this article. Some moments in history are pressed into our minds. We never forget them. We can tell you exactly what we were doing when we heard the news.

Those of us who remember know what happened. We have a pretty good idea of why it happened. Still, we try to find some sense in the tragedy. We try to find the nub of information that will unlock everything and bring some logic to the situation.

Each person deals with it in his own way. Some talk of a conspiracy. They believe that there were bombs planted in the World Trade Centre by the US government. One guy on You Tube created a video filled with inaccuracies. It talks about how the number 11 is a significant, stating how New York City has 11 letters and other useless facts.

For me, it all comes down to this. What have I learned from this moment in history?

I didn’t know anybody who died in this tragedy, although I played softball with one of the survivors. What happened at the World Trade Centre and other places on that day has not touched me personally.

I can replay the footage of the planes crashing into the towers, hoping unrealistically that they will miss this time. They don’t, but each time I view the image, the effect is amplified.

What I walk away with from all this is the fragile nature of our existence. We really don’t know what will be happening from one moment to the next. Our lives can be going on quite normally then, bam, something happens that changes everything forever. What endures, though, is love.

One of the immediate effects of 9-11 was that people started connecting again with their own families, their friends and themselves. While it is sad that it took such an event for people to reach out and rediscover all that they have, that is certainly one thing positive that has come out of this terrorist act.

The Election Debates

I have heard that the Green Party is now being allowed in the election debates. Elizabeth May has triumphed. What she hasn’t done is assure me that she is any more honest than any other political leader.

I realize the importance of being seen on the same stage as the other leaders. I just wish that I had the confidence that it had been done in an honest manner.

My understanding is that to be part of the televised debates your party had to have a seat in the House of Commons. Enter Blair Wilson. He was a former Liberal member who became independent then joined the Green Party.

The next step was for Elizabeth May to start shouting that now that the Green Party had a member of Parliament, she should be allowed to be part of the leaders’ debate.

To this date the Green Party has never had a person elected. Seldom have their candidates even finished in second place, yet they want the same voice as the other major parties.

To start, the whole situation seems fishy. The Liberal Party and the Green Party have agreed not to field opposing candidates in two ridings to increase the potential of their people getting elected. Now that’s democracy for you, isn’t it? So we now have a former Liberal party member shifting to the Green Party. Doesn’t that sound a bit suspicious?

I wonder what would have happened if Blair Wilson had joined the Natural Law Party, Canadian Heritage Party or Communist Party of Canada. Would the same outcry have happened? My feeling is that it wouldn’t have been an issue at all.

Then why did it make a difference with Elizabeth May? She has spent years as a lobbyist nationally and internationally. She is well connected and also knows how to whip the media into a frenzy. There was a letter in our local paper this week about including her in the debate by a party member. My guess is that every party member was encouraged to do the same.

Before you get the idea that I am against Elizabeth May, stop. I admire her in many ways. She has a lot to say. I think she will add something to the debates.

What I don’t like is the way the process worked. If you think I am being tough on the Green Party, I don’t like the idea that a party that doesn’t field candidates outside of Quebec has a place at the podium. Giving the Bloc Quebecois a voice, when it really has no care about the rest of Canada unless it is in Quebec’s interest, does not please me at all. I think it is time to set some rules for how the speakers at the televised debates are selected.

Media Sightings

I have watched with great interest the two party conventions in the United States. There are things I like about each of them; there are things I dislike. One of my concerns is the media spin that is put on these events.

Politicians often complain out of one side of their mouth about media coverage, yet they milk it to death.

Criticism was raised against Princess Diana when she wanted her privacy, yet would contact journalists when it suited her. You just can’t have it both ways.

A bit of that happened last week at the Republican convention. I remember reading about how the family wanted Sarah Palin’s teenage daughter’s pregnancy to be a private matter. Suddenly, the father of the child is at the convention by her side. He didn’t seem to be there at the beginning. Why did he suddenly appear? It certainly got a lot of media attention that wouldn’t have been there had he not arrived.

At both conventions, there were many shots of spouses and kids. What I find odd is that nobody commented that these children seem to be the only ones attending the convention.

Having planned a few conventions, my guess is that there were a few delegates who brought children along. We provided daycare for the children, so their parents could go about doing business.

Although I haven’t done the research, I suspect that both conventions had daycare. Either that or everybody except the candidate families left their children at home, because I didn’t see any.

I have no problem with children who want to see mommy’s or daddy’s finest hour. It is important that they are part of the process. I have difficulty understanding what an infant, who will have no recollection of the event, is doing in the arms of his father and the wife of the presidential candidate. Would not the child be better off asleep in a crib in a quiet room? Why was this baby there?

I think the answer is obvious. The party is playing up to the media. The fact that the baby has Down syndrome portrays the parents as people who understand what it is like to have a child with a disability. It makes them appear nobler. The media eat it up and the public does too. Few stop and ask questions and recognize the media manipulation.

As I said, when the media doesn’t allow this manipulation, both parties will scream about bias and inaccurate reporting. And why not? If you aren’t covering my truth, then I will be upset.

My hope is that the commentators in the media include in their analysis these blatant attempts of branding candidates through means other than the issues they represent. At the end of the day, isn’t that what America wants? It doesn’t matter if you are a hockey mom (a pitbull with lipstick) or that certain Hollywood stars or Oprah supports you. What matters is what the candidates stand for and the good government they hope to provide.

The Same Old Same Old

We have just finished another storytelling festival in St. Marys. In many ways you could consider it a success. We had the strongest roster of tellers ever. Many aspects of the event were beyond our expectations.

Unfortunately, the weather wasn’t the best and our attendance did not go up.

Tomorrow we will be doing a post-mortem. We will be deciding where we need to improve. Many suggestions will be given.

The easiest thing to do would be to continue on, doing the same things we are doing now, just trying to do them even better. We won’t probably be losing money and the tellers and all those who attend tell us we are doing a great job.

If our objective is to have more people come each year, then we are not succeeding. If we do the same as we did last year, the results will be pretty much the same. If you put the same amount of sunshine and water on seeds each year, the yield of your crop won’t be much greater.

Therein lies the problem. We often put up with mediocrity because it feels comfortable instead of taking a chance and flying with the eagles. We tend to look at all of the negative aspects instead of the positive. We worry about falling instead of thinking about flying. The problem is that if you are staying the same and not improving, you are actually moving backwards.

For example, I have thought that it might be better have the festival at the end of June instead of September. I know that many will come up with reasons why we shouldn’t switch the date. My feeling is that if we never try, we will never know. I can think of a few reasons why June will be better, longer, hotter days being one of them.

Most of us are the same way. We settle into our lifestyle, complete with all of its habits, never wanting to change. We are comfortable the way we are, thank you.

When I get like this, I think of Tiger Woods. He was at the top of his game, winning a lot of tournaments. He was the number one golfer in the world. How did he feel about that? He got a coach to change his swing. His goal isn’t to be the number one golfer of a certain year. He wants to be the best golfer ever. He knows that he probably won’t do it if he does the same things every other golfer has done.

Martina Navratilova was the same way in tennis. She was a very good tennis player. That wasn’t her goal. She wanted to dominate the game. She decided to do something other players hadn’t done much of to that point. She worked on her strength and conditioning. Until then, tennis players had become better by merely playing more tennis. She stepped outside of the “same old” and got more than the “same old” results.

So, what do you want out of life? Are you content living the way you are? If so, I am happy for you. However, if you want more, realize that you are going to have to change and that will probably mean going out of your comfort zone and doing things in ways you have never done them before. You are going to have to analyse what you really want in life, then be prepared to make the positive changes you need in order to meet them.

My Happiness

There is only one person in this world who can make me happy – me! Does this mean that people don’t bring me happiness? They do. I love the gift of happiness that others drop at my doorstep.

No, what I am trying to say is that I am the one who is responsible for my happiness, not somebody else.

Let’s say I rely on somebody else to bring me happiness. Guess what? I am going to be disappointed. Why?

To start, can you imagine going through life knowing that somebody else’s happiness depends on you? That is certainly a responsibility that I don’t want.

Next, people are human. They disappoint us sometimes. The stumble and fall. They are not perfect. Do I want to place my joy in the hands of somebody else and take the control from me? I don’t think so.

There is something liberating knowing that your happiness does not depend on somebody else at all. Allowing yourself to have this privilege means you have control over your life. Somebody disappointing you may hurt a bit, but it won’t devastate or destroy. It won’t take away from your happiness at all. Why? You are not depending on that person for your happiness.

I have learned that when I realize I am the only one responsible for my happiness, I am happier. If I have the choice of being happy or sad, I’d much rather be happy.

Something else happens, though. When I am happy, people quite naturally want to be around me. If I am sad, they want to avoid me.

A case in point is Charly Chiarelli. He was a storyteller at our festival this weekend. His enthusiasm bubbles over. He seems to be a very happy man. The result is everyone, EVERYONE, wants to be around Charly. He is the life of the party. When he is around, you expect something wonderful to happen.

I try to be the same way. Instead of moaning about the way things might be, I try to dream of the way they can be. I try to spend my energy bringing joy to the world. I want to be so happy that people want to come along with me for the ride.

And that doesn’t depend on them. That depends on me. Nobody else, only me.

Yes, you can dance for joy alone. When you do, you will soon find that somebody just might want to join in the dance. And if they don’t, then it’s too bad for them, because your dance will bring them joy, too.

My Front Porch

It was a magical night. The organizing committee for the storytelling festival, some of the tellers and the audio guy met for a barbecue at our place.

The conversation was animated. All were enjoying themselves.

This year, our theme is One World – Many Voices. We are featuring stories from different cultures. Assembled on our front porch were representatives of a few countries.

I purposely left my guitar in a spot where it was easily seen. Matt, who is doing our sound, spotted it and got it out and started strumming it. It didn’t take Charly long to get out one of his many harmonicas. La’Ron followed with an odd-shaped drum. It is actually a cube that he sits on. The sound changes depending on where you hit it. Mark went to his car and brought back his mandolin and flute. Finally, one of Matt’s buddies arrived with his guitar.

Our little orchestra assembled, they jammed for over an hour. Everybody joined in when a familiar tune was recognized.

In spite of very different backgrounds and experiences, music intertwined our spirits as we joined together in song. The sum of our parts became one and it was beautiful.

Good food, good music and good friends. It was a perfect recipe for lifting all of our spirits.

Dear Governor General

I understand that Prime Minister Stephen Harper will be coming to you soon to ask for an election to be called.

If my understanding is not wrong, this is the same man who wanted to change the way we do things in Canada. He didn’t want political parties going to the polls merely because they may be ahead in the polls and might win a majority government.

I realize that we have a minority government. I have no problem if the other parties defeat the Conservatives on a vote to force an election.

Of course, the Conservatives could put something ridiculous on the floor, knowing it would be defeated. That would make them look bad. They don’t want to do that.

So Mr. Harper seems to have decided to invite all of the party leaders over for coffee in an effort to convince everyone that nobody wants to play ball with him, so he must call an election.

Michaëlle, I hope you don’t mind my being so informal, but I feel that you have done a great job and have been a real friend to the country. I really feel you have integrity to have risen so far. So I am asking you for a favour.

From my courses long ago in junior high, I learned that you have the ultimate power in Canada. It is something that has only been used twice in our history. I am asking you to use it again.

When Mr. Harper comes calling to ask you to call an election, I am hoping that you will read the hearts of most Canadians and answer, “No.” Then you can give him two options. Please tell him that he can continue doing the job he has been doing for the past few years. If he doesn’t like that one, inform him that there are a few other party leaders who would be willing to get together and do what is necessary to give Canada good government.

Please don’t make us go to the polls unless you get the feeling that Canadians, and not the Conservative Party, want to do so.

Michaëlle, this is a great opportunity to show that you are no ordinary Governor General.

Sincerely,
Johnny V.

Kerem

Have you ever heard of Kerem Yilmazer? Unless you are Turkish, you probably haven’t.

We met Kerem and his wife Goksel in Bodrum, Turkey in 1986. We were seated on a terrace at a restaurant. Rather than sitting facing each other, we sat looking at the people walking along the street, leaving two seats facing us.

Goksel and Kerem came looking to eat, but there was no more space, except the two seats at our table. I motioned for them to sit and they accepted my offer.

We found out that both of them spoke English fluently. Kerem had gone to high school in Los Angeles. Goksel had gone to Boston University. In fact, Faye Dunaway was her roommate when she was there.

The next few hours were spent in animated conversation. I was working for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation in London, England. They were Turkish film stars. We swapped stories about our lives.

Kerem was sort of like a Charles Aznavour or Frank Sinatra of Turkey. He mixed acting with singing. Goksel was a comedienne. In the movie, Funny Girl starring Barbra Streisand, hers was the voice you heard in Turkish, except for the singing, of course.

They invited us to meet them at the beach the next day, which we accepted. We enjoyed each other’s company so much. This led to our getting together every day they were in the area.

I remember one time they came to our hotel to pick us up. We sat and chatted on the chairs in the lobby. A television set was broadcasting a program about a wealthy Turkish family that owned lots of land. It had a son, sort of like the J. R. figure in Dallas, who was gambling away the family fortune.

I noticed people in the lobby looking at the television, then looking at Kerem. Yes, he was the villain in the program. In real life he was anything but. He was a gentleman through and through.

While we were in Turkey, Goksel and Kerem had a wedding anniversary. We threw a surprise party at a restaurant for them, complete with a cake with Turkish words on it. They told us it said “Happy Anniversary”.

The day came when their vacation was over. We still had a few on ours. I remember going back to the restaurant where we met and feeling rather empty. In a short period of time, a close friendship had evolved.

For many years, we exchanged Christmas letters.

In 1999, we met again in London, England at a Turkish restaurant. The place was packed when we arrived. We were placed way in the back at a pretty bad table. As soon as a good one became available, the owner escorted us to the prime location. He knew who they were.

Our reunion was filled with joy and laughter. It was great meeting them again. We parted not knowing if we would see them again.

When we arrived back in Canada, Turkey had a major earthquake. We called them to find that they had spent three days sleeping in their car, but they were fine.

Then came the silence. Our Christmas letters were not reciprocated. We kept sending them. Regardless of whether they were writing, we kept on reaching out, never giving up hope of rekindling the friendship.

Today that day came. I was tooling around the internet when I thought of Goksel. I decided to put her name in Facebook and there she was. I sent her a message immediately and asked her to be a friend. The reply was almost immediate.

So was the news about Kerem. He had died in a terrorist bombing in Istanbul in on November 20, 2003 while sitting in his car at a red light.

As Goksel put it in her letter, she died that day, too. She keeps herself busy, but her special partner in life was taken from her. We feel the loss, too.

I have included some clips of Kerem and a photo. Yes, he was very handsome. Yes, he was a recording and film star in Turkey. But, yes, he was my friend. That is how I remember him.