Monthly Archives: December 2018

Day One: Toronto Airport

I was supposed to show up here three hours before my flight time. As it turned out, four hours was the actual result. Late morning, I said goodbye to my friends at the Belmont Diner and headed down the freeway to Toronto. You might say I was flying high, listening to the sound track of Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again, and belting out the tunes. My audience was simply me, and I was feeling my oats.

Am I really doing this? Belgium. Senegal. Human beings I’ve never met before. So cool. What wonders will reveal themselves in the next three weeks? Who will touch my heart? I sense that life will unfold as it should.

Nothing is fazing me today. Let’s have stuff go wrong. Who cares? First up on the problem list was the fact that KLM’s counter wasn’t open yet. Oh well. The next task was finding a place to sit. I roamed the concourse without success, and marvelled at the faces passing me by. Who are they, really? Where are they going … in life and airplanes?

I finally found a seat. I whipped out my phone to see how many folks had viewed my latest post on WordPress. I really shouldn’t concern myself with such things, but what the heck – I’m human. Some of me needs to be loved.

There were momentary things, such as not having my passport ready for the KLM attendant. She smiled. Not remembering how to go through customs with minimum strain. Moderate strain only cost me a few extra minutes. What’s that in the span of my life? Nothing at all.

Now I’m in a bar near Gate C31. Chicken wings and a beer basically cover all of Canada’s main food groups. I’m happy, even with the fellow two seats down continually swearing into his phone. The self-esteemed version of my identity is complaining that I should have spoken up. I suppose, but nothing is going to waver my well-being on this day.

TV sports are overhead. The highlight show on TSN shows the best of the best – impossible catches, miraculous saves and slow motion flying through the air. It’s better than blooper shows, where an athlete’s poor decision-making creates angst in the human breast.

On the other TV, jocks in suits are revving up their testosterone on a variety of topics. They’re not exactly yelling at each other but the venom curls their lips. No thanks. Give me the awesome pass any day.

My next experience is sitting in the departure lounge. Apart from the multitude of humans lined up, almost everyone else is staring at their electronics. (Wait a minute … so am I!) All around me are colours, shapes and ages. Lovely. I’d like to talk to them all but no one seems interested. That’s okay.

Once I’m on the plane, I expect that I won’t be able to send this post, so here’s Bruce signing off. Seven hours to Amsterdam and then a short hop to Brussels, and my friends Jo and Lydia. Yay! See you tomorrow.

Safe Landing

How easily today fades into yesterday.  I planned to blog last night but the last minute events of Friday ran away with me.  Today I fly to Belgium.  Yesterday I did things I love with people I love and crammed packing and erranding between.

The love part was reciting “Twas the Night Before Christmas” to five classes yesterday morning and listening to my friends Liv and Braden sing their hearts out in concert last night.  Wide-eyed 5-year-olds gazed up at me as I jollied my way through the poem.  Their mouths as little o’s transformed into glee as I said “Twas” a second time … really fast.  My record yesterday was one minute and one second.  Oh, what a good boy am I!

My friends form the duo “Tragedy Ann” and they blend beautifully – as singers, as instrumentalists, and most impressively as human beings.  Their love for each other shone from the stage.  And songs such as the haunting “Regulars” shine a light on us human beings, this time the stories of ordinary folks who frequent a bar that is home.

Morning and evening were deliciously slow.  Still, the nasty little voice would sometimes intervene.  “Why did you say “Twas” to so many classes today?  You’ve got a big deadline tomorrow.  And what’s with the concert?  You should be focused on the task at hand.”  Silly voice.  People are infinitely more lovely than schedules.  Don’t worry, frantic one, I’ll get the job done.  I’ll fly from Toronto tomorrow (today) at 6:00 pm.

Other parts of my day were a blur of doingness.  A stop at Best Buy to pick up an electrical outlet adapter for Europe and Africa.  Hmm.  Do I also need it to be a voltage converter?  I didn’t know and neither did the well-meaning salesman.  I bought a combo unit.

The kitchen counter was covered with stuff.  Most crucial was all the health info.  Make sure I take the vaccination card so Senegalese officials know that I’m protected from yellow fever.  And oh, where did I put the bottle of insect repellent – the type with super-DEET?  Clothes for very cold and clothes for very hot …

Wait a minute … I forgot to fill the nyjer feeder.  The new seed that I bought is still in the trunk.  C’mon, go go go!  Scissors to open the bag.  Feeder all dry now in the sink after a good washing.  Remember your physio appointment in London at 2:30.

Feeders filled, birds soon to be happy, I set off for London, just a little late for comfort.  Seven minutes to the freeway and now I can rev it up.  110 kph, not many cars … I’m golden.  I greeted the clinic receptionist with three minutes to spare.  Ahh …

Slow through the session of exercises and muscle stimulation.  That’s better.  But my re-entry into Scarlet got me going again.  “Once you’re home again in Belmont, you’ll have at least two hours of organizing time before you have to drive back to London for the concert.  No sweat.”

And then the moment of the day: At a stoplight, there’s a woman knocking on the passenger window.  She’s holding something.  I roll down the window.  “These scissors were on your trunk.”  Oh my.  “Thank you so much.”  As we started up on the green, I waved to my new friend in the rearview mirror.

Now you tell me … How exactly am I still in possession of my dear scissors?  Is there some benign force that’s wishing me well as I head off into the world?  I say “yes”.  And that voice simply says “Be with people.”

 

 

Crying and Sport

The Athletic is a fairly new website which follows the stories of professional sports teams in several North American cities. I love the Toronto news. Gifted writers analyze the play of the Toronto Maple Leafs hockey team with a level of insight that I haven’t seen before. And then there are the human interest stories about the players – some famous athletes and others recently uncovered. Bottom line: I click on The Athletic and find myself nodding or smiling or ah-hahing. It makes me happy.

Then there was today, and a masterpiece of writing from James Mirtle. The Leafs are on their annual Florida swing, with games Thursday in Tampa and Saturday near Fort Lauderdale. The history is that the players’ dads come on down but this time it’s the moms. James writes about the tender relationship between superstar Auston Matthews and his mother Ema. She talks about her parents in Mexico:

He started watching. They can see (Maple Leafs games) in Mexico. I would buy it (on satellite) for them, and they can see it. He kind of understands the game better than my mom. Mom only wants to go to see where Auston is. She’s always asking “Where is Auston?” She just wants to see her grandson, not the sport.

Woh. The tone is set, and it’s called love. Here’s more from Ema:

I’m very excited. I’m looking forward to seeing what Auston actually does. Because usually when you ask Auston – everything is cool, it’s fun. But he doesn’t tell you details. Guys don’t explain to moms what they do. I’m looking forward to seeing what goes behind all the work the team does before the game. And to spend some time with the team, with the moms, and of course with my boy.

Well … this is worlds away from how many goals and how many assists, how well Auston gets his wrist shot off, and whether he has what it takes to be a good backchecker. There’s something else, something big, going on.

I admire Auston so much. You’re going to make me cry because it’s hard for me to talk about Auston. He knew what he wanted since he was little. He always knew. Even myself, now looking back, all the things he used to tell me – he knew what he wanted. And to get in this market (in Toronto), who would have thought, right?

We’ve always asked our kids to be humble. It doesn’t matter if you have money or if you don’t. You always be humble. Don’t get things into your head. We always loved people like that. We wanted to raise our kids like that. We always saw kids that were spoiled, and they didn’t appreciate what they had. We didn’t want that for our kids. Auston, we tell him just to enjoy what you have. Be grateful.

I’m sure you feel it … Ema Matthews is a full human being. And you and I aren’t the only ones with brimming eyes. Here’s a sample of the comments that readers sent in:

I’m not crying. It’s just been raining … on my face.

For many years my wife sacrificed for our 19-year-old but even without the NHL, it was worth it. Auston’s mom is the real star. As are hockey moms everywhere that just want the game to be fun for their boys and girls.

I have to go call my mother and tell her I love her.

My next jersey is going to be Matthews. Ema Matthews.

Greatest story I’ve read on The Athletic so far. Thank you Ema for raising such a good young man. It’s both a pleasure and a thrill to watch him play for the team I’ve loved since I was a little boy.

Is any athlete’s mother as beloved by their fanbase as Ema Matthews is by Leaf fans?

***

We touch each other

Tomorrow, Death Comes

Ardently do today what must be done
Who knows?
Tomorrow, death comes

The Buddha

What if the rumour is true, that I will die tomorrow? First of all, I don’t have time for this. I need to pack for Belgium and Senegal. Secondly, I like a gradual approach to things. Knocking off in a few hours would be far too … spontaneous. Not to mention that I’d need to get my affairs in order first. And no, no – not that type of affair.

Over the years, I’ve come to realize that I could die right now and be happy. No regrets. It’s been a fine life. I’ve touched many people and have welcomed their sweet influence in return. I have done my part in having the Earth be a better place. I’d prefer to have twenty more years of human contact but if the jig is up tonight, I’ll lie down with a grin on my face.

But back to tomorrow. If the sands run out at 4:00 pm, how will I spend my morning? If I had superdupersonic speed at my disposal, would I jet off to some vacation spot that I’m supposed to visit before I die? Hmm. Guess I need to give you an example:

Bora Bora is the poster child of the iconic tropical paradise. This island sits 143 miles northwest of Papeete, in the South Pacific, and features the extraordinary turquoise waters, white sand beaches, and beautiful greenery you’d hope to find in the tropics – only it’s more fantastic than you can imagine.

Would that do it? Surely turquoise would provide the ending bliss appropriate for an ending human being. I’ll just cram some turquoise inside and all will be well. Maybe.

***

Speaking of cramming, how about a sumptuous meal at the world’s finest restaurant, which as we all know is … Osteria Francescana – twelve tables in the heart of Modena.

Italian hospitality is in the details
the ironed tablecloths and the polished silver
It is an ensemble of gestures that define a way of life
The table is where the journey begins

Blah, blah, blah

But if I’m about to expire, do I really want to be loosening my belt so my stomach can breathe? To need a nap before the really lengthy one sets in? No thanks.

***

Okay, what else? I know … sex! Eight hours of orgasmic bliss with multiple Hollywood beauties? Uhh … then a short remaining life of being sore and exhausted. More sleeping needed, again before the big snooze.

***

So, if not these imposters … what is left to ardently do?

How about finding one open-hearted one
either male or female
and looking deep into their eyes until mine close
gazing upon the beloved as my finale nears?

Yes, that will do nicely

Spacious

About six months ago, “Geoff” and “Barbara” moved into our condo community to be close to their daughter and her family. I’d say they’re both in their 70’s. Geoff can’t drive any more and is starving for male companionship. That’s where I come in. Every two or three weeks, I drive him to the Belmont Diner for breakfast. Geoff is very appreciative.

We sat around the horseshoe-shaped counter today with five local guys. One asked how Geoff could stand me. He replied with something like “Oh, it’s a challenge.” And the banter flows. Geoff’s a natural. He makes wry comments about the political situation and is already taking a playful jab or two at the assembled locals. All in good fun.

Geoff doesn’t see well and he doesn’t move well but his spirit is strong. He doesn’t let his current physicality determine his congeniality. And he laughs at himself. The guys already like him.

In the summer, I sat on Geoff’s deck, which like my patio backs onto a field, this year planted with corn. I remember him talking about the beauty of the green stalks, their tips waving in the breeze. Geoff sees. Geoff feels, and is willing to talk about it. Rare.

We went for a drive this morning after breakie, and my friend was so thankful for the journey. He waxed poetic about the feeling of space, the long views across the fields. Once again I marvelled. Here is a kindred spirit … drinking in the majesty of the world. His previous home near St. Catharines, Ontario was overrun with dull gloms of sameness – expensive homes that somehow all looked like each other. The extended tongue of urban life. Now, already after a few months, Geoff was home.

I wanted to show him the golf course I love – Tarandowah – now blanketed in white. I told him about the flow of the fairways, the long fescue grass in the rough, the Canada geese flying overhead, the silence. He got it. He was there with me as I wondered at it all. I thought about the club members I know. Not a one has ever cast their eyes to the horizon and talked of the loneliness of the links, the sensuous undulations of the seventh green, the vista from the fourth tee. Thank you, Geoff, for entering my world.

On the way home, we talked of trees. Geoff told me of the “Serengeti tree” he sees framed in his living room window, and how the sunset through the branches is glorious.

Just like my neighbour, I too am home.

Free

We will begin to marvel that we let ourselves build our lives around the belief that we, the real self, were identified with these various descriptions, which descriptions required so much protection, justification, grief, anger, pride and so on.  So much vital energy.  We exhaust ourselves in the support of our descriptions.

I don’t know who wrote this but I like it.

As soon as I say “I am X”, there’s the opportunity for fear, smallness, defense.  “Could it be that I’m not really X?”  And would that possibility be a problem?  If it is, I better muster lots of energy to protect the truth of my Xness.  There are enemies out there who want to prove I’m actually not X.  I tighten my fists to beat them back.

I am a real man
I am intelligent
I am kind
I am determined
I am handsome
I am mature
I am generous
I am athletic
I am creative
I am popular
I am loved

But what if, sometimes, I’m not?  What then?  If I shrug my shoulders and say “Oh well” without feeding the statement and its contradiction, what would happen in my life?  Would angst fade to the background?  Would a reservoir of energy previously invisible be revealed?

I believe the answer is “Yes”.

Perhaps I’m not a personality riding on the roller coaster of life, raising my head here, letting it slump there.  Maybe I’m a fierce spiritual being who’s vibrant with the energy that flows outwards and unconcerned with the energy coming in.  There might not be any deficit, nothing to be fixed or improved.  What’s it’s all about could simply be expression rather than reaction, giving rather than fending off, flowing rather than damming.

In my better moments …

Bruce, you’re free
Bruce, you’re simply a space vibrating with possibility
Bruce, you’re marvelously sufficient
And did I mention that you’re free?

Choir

As a teenager, I sang in the Melrose Park Presbyterian Church Choir in Toronto.  In my 50’s, I sang in the Port Stanley Community Choir.  Throughout the years, we made beautiful music in the blending of sopranos, altos, tenors and basses.  I was a bass … and I still am.  I love singing.

Now I’ve moved to Belmont, Ontario, and there’s a new group on the block – the Belmont Community Singers.  I went to hear them this afternoon at the United Church.  Part of me still wants to sing exquisite songs with others, but I lean towards doing that in a folk music group rather than in a formal choir.  Still … there I was in the front row, only a few feet from a violinist.  Twenty-five singers and an small orchestra.  Lovely.

I was the only one in the front row.  Otherwise the church was pretty packed.  Perhaps I’m odd.  As I sat there, I journeyed back to other Christmas concerts, at the Port Stanley United Church.  How I loved singing O Come All Ye Faithful with the audience, listening to Gord Stacey give us O Holy Night in his deep bass voice, and finish the concert each year with the delightful A Special Night.  As the last note hung in the air, I always wondered if that would be the last time I’d sing this precious song.  One year … it was.

The Belmont Singers walked to the church sanctuary from the back, and soon Break Into Song did exactly that.  Most of the faces were shining.  I only knew one singer but it felt like I knew them all.

A woman strode forward for her solo.  It was Gord’s song – O Holy Night.  She was nervous.  Within the first few notes, her voice cracked.  She apologized.  She coughed.  Amid the beautiful melodic moments, there was more cracking.  I moved my spirit inside her and wished her well.  I stayed inside her the whole time, loving her, willing that her best would emerge.  Near the end of the piece, there’s a very high note.  She nailed it!  Waydago, my unknown friend.

“Brian” was the choir director.  He kept drawing out the beauty of the music from twenty-five mouths.  They were so very much with him.  And so were we.  For one thing, he was a major comedian.  At one point, he was requesting that we leave our e-mail addresses after the concert so the Singers could let us know about future musical events.  “Okay, that’s enough selling!  Back to the songs.”  Perfect.

We the audience got to sing with the choir.  What a blessing.  Armed with our lyrics sheet, we blasted out It Came Upon A Midnight Clear and then (!) O Come All Ye Faithful.  Just like the good old days.

As we let the last notes of We Wish You A Merry Christmas fade away, we were a community.  Singers and players stood in response to the standing audience.  Smiles were flying across the room.  Merry Christmas, dear friends.

***

Will I allow the good old days to return?
Will that be me on the stage a year or two from now?
Hmm …

Find a Ball

I think back forty years.  I was teaching a life skills program at Lethbridge Community College in Alberta, designed for young adults who were struggling in some respect, and who wanted to get into regular college programs.  We were on a winter outdoor education trip to the mountains.  We had just completed a loop trip on snowshoes, including portions on trails and another on a road.

As we approached our van, John came up to me.  “I think I dropped my glasses back up there on the road.”  (Sigh)  I looked inside and immediately knew that I would go back and find them.  The students would huddle in the van with the guy who was supervising with me.

Off I went, alone.  Not too wise, in retrospect (the alone part).  As I trudged upward, it became so clear in my head: Somewhere, John’s glasses would appear before my eyes.  And they did.

***

Now today.  After a scrumptious brunch and several conversations at the Mount Elgin Golf Club, I decided to walk the fairways of Tarandowah … my friend and lover.  Yes, I am in love with the windswept fairways, the deep pot bunkers, the undulating greens, the silence.

I decided to walk the six holes that would loop me back to Scarlet.  Soon a quest emerged in my mind: “Find a golf ball.”  My goodness, what a silly thought.  Tarandowah was covered in snow.  Finding white amidst a sea of white seemed hopeless.  Actually ridiculous.  To which my quiet voice replied … “Find a ball.”

Alrighty then.  I said hi to Hole Number 1, and to Number 3.  I stood behind the green of Number 14, reliving the scene that shines on my bedroom wall.  Today was winter rather than summer, but that didn’t matter.  So far no emerging white spheres, but my faith kept erupting.  Dear Number 6 has a mound in the middle of the fairway – such a delightful and unfair obstacle for determined golfers.  There was lots of white on the mound, even a few globs of snow that were roughly round, but no dimpled fellow that I could see.

I crossed the bridge over the creek on Number 7.  Way off to the right, at the bottom of things, a white ball appeared to show itself, but wading into freezing waters just isn’t my thing.

On each hole, I scrutinized the bunkers.  They were all tilted up, facing back to the tees.  At the front, all you needed was a step or two down to enter the kingdom but the far edges were usually at chest level and adorned with a beard of long fescue grass.  I often stood on the fairway or rough above the high edge and looked down, hoping to see some white regularity among the strands.  Nothing.

There are huge mounds behind the green on Number 8, bordered by a sea of gnarly grass.  I looked here, I looked there, but as far as I could tell, no golf balls winked back at me.

Finally Number 9 and the return to Scarlet.  I seemed to be running out of options but there was a fierceness within.  “The ball is here.  Find it!”  Number 9 is a par five and I roamed from bunker to bunker without satisfaction.  All that remained was to cross the 18th green on the way to the parking lot.  Four more bunkers loomed.

First – blah.

Second – nyet.

Third – endless snow.

And now the fourth.  My quiet voice said “Walk onto the sand.”  I did.  “Approach the far wall,” with its flurry of long grasses hanging.  I did.  “Run your hands down through the vertical grass.”  I did … nothing.  “Again.”  I did.  “Keep going.”  On my fifth or sixth swipe, my mitted fingers bounced off something solid.  I pulled the grass away.

Embedded in a pocket of frozen mud
I read these words:
“TaylorMade 22”
A golf ball

So …
What’s real?

Kids’ Party

It was happening tonight at the St. Thomas Library – performers singing, playing instruments and telling stories. Kids showing their stuff to other kids taking it in. Wide eyes from the little ones.

First up were the “Jingle J’s”, children singing as well as playing guitar, ukulele and drums, along with adults grooving as lead guitarist, bass guitarist and backup singer. Songs ranged from Silent Night to Momma Rock Me – beautifully eclectic! The young’uns were hopping around and warbling their tunes. They urged we the audience to sing along to classics such as Feliz Navidad but very few of us grabbed the golden ring. I, however, grabbed. Life is short … go for the gusto.

Then it was time for a lovely lady storyteller. She sat on the floor, leaning against a chair, with a semi-circle of five-year-olds spread around her. As she recounted the innumerable adventures of Santa and friends, tiny faces watched her every move. One two-year-old decided to bounce on an upholstered chair while checking the traffic outside. All those cool red and white lights! Her smile aimed at mom would melt the grumpiest heart.

The story creator then turned to song, specifically Jingle Bells. She just happened to have enough wrist bells for every child, and they shook, rattled and rolled for all they were worth. Such delight everywhere l looked.

As Gerard took the stage with his acoustic guitar, a little girl and boy professed their love for each other in dance. Around and around they twirled as he sang, oblivious to any idea of “performance”. Let’s just have fun.

Our fearless leader favoured us with Ricky Nelson’s Garden Party and inspiring lyrics from John Lennon:

A very Merry Christmas
and a Happy New Year
Let’s hope it’s a good one
Without any fear

And our mini-couple danced on.

As Gerard started in on Blowin’ in the Wind, one of my favourite singalongs, the woman sitting beside me leaned over and proceeded to tell me all about the children she sponsors in Africa. And in that moment I had a choice: indulge my singing needs or be with her. I decided to look into her eyes and celebrate the kids. It was a good choice.

Now our evening together is over. I spent time with many fine people and I am the better for it. Folks wanted to communicate. I wanted to listen. It works well that way.

Kids’ Play

There’s nothing like the annual Christmas play in elementary school.  Today I got to watch a practice.  How marvelous to see children be children.  I tried to imagine adults doing all the cool stuff I witnessed.  Sometimes the imagining was a stretch.

One young lady has perfected “Bah humbug!”  It wasn’t just her face, which was a contorted mask of fury.  Her whole body got into the act, crouching down in a spasm of scowl.  I just had to applaud.  Sure wouldn’t want to meet her in a dark alley.

Three elves, two girls and a boy, were doing their conversational thing.  The fellow kept extending his ball of greenery towards the nearest girl.  Mistletoe!  She cringed and backed away from him, fending off the offending amour with her arms.  Then he did it again … and so did she!  Ahh, the battle of the sexes.

And soon there were grandma and grandpa, expecting holiday mail.  At the end of the scene, the darling couple exited the stage with their twin canes, slow and bent over as I hope I never am.  (Good luck on that, Bruce)  How strange to see 10-year-olds hobbling along in pain.  My brain just couldn’t make sense of it.  Good acting.

Next was the mailman, striding onto a long white box which doubled as a slippery sidewalk.  Down she went in a heap, slip-sliding away.  Letters and presents tumbled every whichway.  Pure slapstick fun.

Also, what would a Christmas play be without reindeer?  Eight of them lined up on the box, with antler heads proudly displayed.  Arms were flying in the air and mouths bellowed the good and bad.  What a motley crew … and immensely lovable too.  You should have seen them all hopping off at the end.

My favourite moment was when a young girl was pleading with someone  – I think the mailman.  Hands in prayer position … imploring, begging.  So good.  Soon to be followed by another girl, crying her eyes out, in the best tradition of drama.  Angst always gets me.

I smiled a lot
I clapped
And I wished that more than a few of those kids were mine
Maybe next lifetime