Monthly Archives: February 2019

Fresh

Take one aspect of your life where it’s been “same old, same old” for a long time.  It’s comfortable but there’s something missing.  You’re going through the motions.  Little frustrations nip at you but you don’t seem to have the energy to make a change.  That pretty much sums up my experience at the fitness club.

Jody and I started going to this gym about ten years ago.  It was fine – a reasonable variety of machines, super low cost, friendly staff.  After my dear wife died, I simply carried on, sometimes sporadically, usually without much enthusiasm.

Yesterday, a voice inside said “You’ve been sleepwalking.  Wake up.”  So … I got my gym clothes together and set off for a workout.  I considered it an experiment in paying attention.

A staff member whom I really enjoy was at the front desk.  She was all excited about a job she’d just got at a high end pub in London.  She wasn’t sure if she’d also continue working at the club.  “Really, I feel done here.”  Could that be my voice speaking?

I thought of the many staff members I know.  They’re fine people.  A few of them have been especially kind to me.  Is that enough of a reason to stay?

This visit I really looked around.  The main room was sort of … dark.  A few machines had “I’m sick” signs attached to them.  Was I creating a reality here or was the environment just plain blah?  And so what if it was?  The most important thing is what I create, rather than what the surroundings offer back to me.

I went into the locker room to change.  The soap dispenser took several seconds to deliver a dollop to my palm.  Assuming I’m a fairly mature person, that shouldn’t be a problem.  Maybe this is all mental.  Nevertheless, I kept looking.  The paper towels wouldn’t rip properly from their machine.  Cubicle doors banged hard when they closed.  Months ago, I asked the manager to buy some little fuzzy pads for the doorjambs but she never did.

After stretching, I reached my favourite elliptical machine.  I knew it was my favourite because none of the others worked perfectly well.  That’s okay.  At least I had my own personal steed.  After pressing the start button, I realized that the intensity was too high.  My first few minutes are usually a stroll in the park, but immediately it was a grind.  Soon I got into the flow pretty well, but on the cool-down, I had to struggle rather than relaxing into the end.  Hmm.  Are inanimate objects in the habit of sending coded messages to human beings?  Perhaps.

The last couple of months, I’ve been going to a sports medicine clinic for my knee.  I’m not really worried about the joint because after all I have a spare on the other side!  This clinic is located in a downtown fitness club.  Guess I’ve been sleepwalking on that journey too but today I decided to go there and ask for a tour.  I opened my eyes upon arrival.  This is a “clean, well-lighted place”.  (A quote from Ernest Hemingway).

A smiling receptionist (who earlier in the day I had sung with as I left my physio appointment) ushered me to a little table.  Right away, another smiler approached me with her hand out in greeting.  “Jessica” made gentle eye contact and clearly had no interest in some canned sales talk.  Actually she did more listening than talking.  And there was absolutely no sense of hurry about her.  I realized that she was “seeing” me, something I deeply value.  As members walked by us, my new friend greeted many of them, and clearly each was happy to see the other.  Hmm again.

As we talked, I counted many smiling conversations happening near me.  And there were a lot of folks here to exercise.  I listened to the energy in the building and it was happy.  Jessica was happy.  Gosh, I was getting happy.

At one point, I said “Okay, sign me up.”  Jessica looked over and said something like “Really?”  There was an amused and quizzical look on her face.  I had sensed into the truth of this place.  This could be home.  I didn’t need the grand tour or pricing options or a long list of benefits.  I knew.

I had my tour.  I signed on the dotted line.  I clutched my free gym bag and water bottle to my chest.  All of that was fine.  But Jessica’s care and the glowing passersby did the deed for me.

I had walked in the door at 6:55 pm.  I walked out at 9:00.  Towards the end of the evening, something that Jessica said made me wonder, and I had to ask the question “Was your shift over at 7:00?”  >  (Pause)  “Yes.”

I intend to pass all this goodness on to the people I meet here.  Naturally I want to get fitter but more than anything I want to create a new community for myself, to contribute to the members and staff every time I walk in the door.  It’s a fun thing to do.

Daddy!

I ventured into YouTube this afternoon, intending to feed my addiction to the song “Shallow”, sung by Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper.  I went in search of a clip showing their singing embrace at the Academy Awards.  I melted when she rested her head against his at the end.  Today, I never got there.

I was waylaid by a video showing a US serviceman’s greeting to his family on the big screen at a football game.  There was his wife, teenaged son and maybe 10-year-old daughter, all decked out in their finery.  As they stared longingly at the screen, and as his message completed, the announcer asked them to turn around.  Walking across the field, wearing his uniform, was their husband and father.  The little girl’s eyed exploded and hands came to her face.  “Daddy!”  Then she sprinted to her dad, throwing her body up against his.  Arms holding tight around his neck, tears falling.  I cried too.

I kept watching homecoming videos – reunions with parents, spouses, kids and friends.  At graduation ceremonies, jumping out of boxes in living rooms, a special visitor coming into the kindergarten class.  Some soldiers talked a lot.  Some just silently held their loved ones.  Love wrapped itself around all of them.

I did this for my mom and dad once, flying back to Ontario from Alberta for a surprise.  I was hiding away in a little space off the living room of the farm where mom grew up.  Mom, dad, Aunt Gertrude and Uncle Orville had just come into the driveway.  And now they were sitting down.  Through the door, I heard the voices of the people I loved.  And then the door opened.  Hugs, tears, holding each other in all the ways possible.

I just spent an hour or more immersed in this depth of love.  I don’t have any kids.  My dear wife Jody has died.  But this love, given and received, is available to me.  In those moments of contact, there is nothing but the beloved.  It’s beyond happy.  It’s so beyond the usual rhythms of the day.  May we embrace it.

Gander

The population of Gander, Newfoundland is about 10,000.  On September 11,  2001, they had 6,700 visitors.  When terrorists brought down the Twin Towers in New York City, the federal government shut down US airspace.  Thirty-eight passenger jets en route to the States were diverted to this tiny outpost.

In late August last year, I was crossing Newfoundland by bus.  We stopped at the Gander Airport and inside the terminal I found a fitting monument – a twisted girder from the 911 tragedy.  It was a gift from the people of New York to the people of Gander.  As one of the welcomers said in 2001, “We’re all Americans today.”  I looked around the terminal and imagined hundreds of frightened travellers milling around.

There’s been a play created based on those days in Newfoundland.  I’m going to Come From Away in April, and I’m sure I’ll be moved by human kindness and resiliency.  In prep for my trip to Toronto, I bought a book called The Day The World Came to Town.  The same people, the same humanity on display.

Here are a few quotes from the book.  They make real an event of terrorism and emergency because real folks are saying real things.

First, a song:

Raise your glass and drink with me to that island in the sea
Where friendship is a word they understand
You will never be alone when you’re in a Newfie’s home
There’s no price tag on the doors in Newfoundland

There will always be a chair at the table for you there
They will share what they have with any man
You don’t have to worry, friend, if your pocketbook is thin
There’s no price tag on the doors in Newfoundland 

I felt the generosity of Newfies in Port-aux-Basques, Gander and St. John’s.  And not a pretend giving, but genuine.

Here’s more:

***

The biggest problem facing officials was transportation.  How do you move almost 7,000 people to shelters, some of which were almost fifty miles outside of town?  The logical answer was to use school buses.  On September 11, however, Gander was in the midst of a nasty strike by the area’s school bus drivers.

Amazingly, as soon as the drivers realized what was happening, they laid down their picket signs, setting their own interests aside, and volunteered en masse to work around the clock carrying the passengers wherever they needed to go.

***

Roxanne and Clark decided to buy something comfortable to wear, a change of underwear, and some deodorant.  No sooner had they returned to the Lions Club than another woman who they hadn’t seen before asked if they would like to take a shower.  Roxanne hadn’t seen any showering facilities but assumed they must be tucked away in a part of the club that this woman would now show them.

“No,” the woman said.  “You can come over to me house and shower.”

Roxanne stopped herself from laughing.  A complete stranger was inviting her to her home to use the shower.  Roxanne and Clark had both grown up in small towns but this went well beyond small-town hospitality.  These were the nicest people in the world, Roxanne thought.

***

Cindy and Reg Wheaton took Vitale to their home just down the street.  They told him to help himself to anything in the refrigerator and to use the phone to make calls or the computer to send e-mails.  They showed him where the remote for the cable television was located, handed him a clean towel, and left.  He could stay as long as he wanted, and they told him that when he was done he should just leave the door unlocked on the way out.  Vitale was speechless when they left.

***

Fast found herself on a residential street, where she spotted a man on a porch waving at her.  He asked if she was one of the stranded passengers.

“Yes,” she said.

He explained that he and his family were preparing a big birthday party for his grandson in the backyard.  He asked if she’d like to join them.  She agreed and followed him around the house.  The boy’s parents were still decorating the backyard with balloons and streamers in anticipation of other children arriving.  Fast was introduced to the guest of honor.

“Happy birthday,” she said.

“Thank you,” the boy replied.

“How old are you?” 

“Seven.”

Fast was energized by the family’s sense of warmth and their willingness to share this time with an outsider who just happened to be walking down the street.

***

As its old slogan implies, Canadian Tire is more than just tires.  One of the clerks was able to scrounge up a pair of air mattresses and two sleeping bags and then asked, “Do you want a tent as well?”

Zale said it wasn’t necessary but Wood cut her off.

“Hell, yes, we want a tent,” she declared, her Texas accent almost bowling the clerk over.  It might rain, Wood reasoned, so a tent could come in handy.  Zale and Wood piled their supplies onto the checkout counter and started reaching for their credit cards.

“You’re off the plane, right?” the cashier asked.

When Zale and Wood nodded, the cashier announced that they could just take the items.  Anything the stranded passengers needed, the store was happy to provide.  The store even offered to send one of their employees over to the Knights of Columbus to help them set up the tent.

…..

No sooner had the first planes started to land in Gander than O’Donnell received a phone call from her bosses telling her she had carte blanche to donate everything in the store, if necessary, to the relief effort.  “Anything the passengers need that you can provide, please do it,” she was instructed.  Money was not to be an issue … In fact, if another store had something the passengers needed, and that store had reached its limit in terms of donations, then O’Donnell was authorized to go in and buy it for the passengers.  It was like a scene right out of Miracle on 34th Street.

***

Newtel, the telephone company for Newfoundland, set up a long bank of tables on the sidewalk in front of its offices and filled them with telephones so passengers could make free long-distance calls to their families.  On another set of outdoor tables, they placed computers with internet access.  Newtel officials kept the tables running day and night for as long as the passengers needed them.

***

Harris called one of her assistants, Vi Tucker, and the two women loaded up a truck with pet food, water, cleaning supplies, and anything else they thought they might need, and lit out for the airport.  Once they arrived, they began sizing up the situation.  The animals were stowed away in cages in the same compartments as the luggage.  As Harris went around taking a quick look inside each of the planes, she knew these animals were going through their own emotional ordeals.  In some cases, Harris couldn’t even see the animals, as they were buried behind mounds of suitcases.  But she could hear them crying and barking … One at a time, they crawled into the belly of the airplanes, tunneling their way through the mountains of bags, to reach each animal.  As best they could, they would clean the cage and then lay out some food and water.

***

Following the van driver’s directions, they approached a large house with off-white vinyl siding and white trim.  Mark joked that he would protect them if there was any trouble, and the women laughed nervously.  They noticed an older woman standing in the driveway.

“George invited us over for coffee,” Deb said.

“You must be the plane people,” the woman replied, introducing herself as George’s wife Edna.  “Come on in, my dears.”

***

Well said, Edna
Come on in

Slimming Down

No, I’m not talking about my weight or the size of my belly.  I’m looking at what’s “extra” in my life, what I can quite happily do without.  I’m finally getting that the extras don’t bring abiding happiness.

I’m 70.  Maybe I have 20 years left on this planet.  What do I want them to be about?  The answer comes clearly – I want to make a huge contribution to the consciousness of the world … without ego, without “look at me”.  If I’m stuck in my “stuff”, putting lots of energy into fixing my problems, that energy is not available to flow outwards as love.

So, what do I need to let go of?

1.  The question “How am I doing?”  It’s been walking beside me for decades.  This morning, I wanted to shower, stretch into yoga poses and do my physio exercises before driving a friend to breakfast at the Belmont Diner.  I know approximately how long each of these activities takes.  After showering and shaving, I could feel the pull of the alarm clock.  But I didn’t look.  I’ve lost the essence of so many minutes by not flowing with the present moment.  Not today, thank you.  I’ve used the question to analyze my weight, my spiritual development, my “progress” through the day.  Enough.

2.  External standards of appropriate behaviour.  “I should write a blog post every day.”  My goodness, who made that one up?  Sometimes I’ve gone to bed without writing anything, with the plan to create a post the next morning, and then a second one in the evening to “catch up”.  Catch up to what, may I ask?  And in association with that, I’ve declared that I need to keep frequent track of how many views my writings have scored on WordPress.  How many likes on Facebook.  Well, that’s just dumb, although I would have answered differently a few days ago.  What a colossal waste of energy.

3.  I love sports but I need to figure out why.  I say that I love the Toronto Maple Leafs but is that just an echo from the 1960’s when the Leafs won four Stanley Cups and I went to all the parades?  Does the belonging I feel as a Leafs fan hold a candle to the belonging possible when a group of people are actively spreading love across the planet?  No.  Why am I reading endless articles analyzing the successes and failures of players and teams?  Seems stupid.

What’s true is that I love the transcendent moments in sport, when one player does something amazing.  Those great plays remind me of how “above and beyond” each of us can be in our daily lives.  If that’s what drives me, I can watch the half-hour highlight shows on TV, where athlete after athlete breaks beyond the norm.

4.  Being afraid of strong female leaders.  It’s all part of the historical Bruce: “I’m less than.  I’m not good enough.”  Powerful people surround themselves with powerful people.  I want to be a powerful person so bring on all the “out there” movers and shakers I can find.

5.  Beer.  It just makes me tired and woozy.  I then don’t have the clarity to “be with” the other person in a deep way.  I feel good for awhile but the beauty fades so easily.  I’m looking for something far more durable in life.

6.  Small talk.  Critical talk.  Participating in them just makes me shrink.  Maybe I’ll say a thing or two about politics or local issues but a drawn-out discussion verging on argument just takes me away from what’s important.  If the group is hot and heavy into the topic, I can stay quiet and love them silently from a short distance.  It can be a one-way flow, not always a mutual sharing of spirit (but I love it when that happens).

7.  Too much energy in … not enough energy out.  Being happy is not about accumulating experiences, such as Oscar-winning movies, gourmet meals and lush landscapes.  They’re fine.  And so are cool things that people say to me.  But the real joy is in what I put out there to the world.  Am I big enough often enough to spread love, peace and freedom far and wide?  I think so.

***

Getting down to the essential Bruce
Shaving down the hard edges
Finding that well full of sweet water … and sharing it

The Silent Piano … Speaks

For a few years in the 1980’s, I was a volunteer manager at Lethbridge Regional Hospital in Alberta.  I saw a new modern building being erected, one with a sky-high atrium of glass.  In the middle stood a grand piano.  It took me awhile, but one lunch hour I strode over to the black magnificence and sat down.

Thirty years earlier, I ventured a few blocks from home for my evening piano lessons.  It was work.  It was mistake upon mistake.  It was an edict from above not embraced by this little guy below.

In the time between, I had somehow made friends with the piano.  I had let go of trying to read music and just experimented with the fingers moving on the keys.  Could I “play by ear”?  Not really, but melodies appeared now and then.

There were a few people lounging in the hospital atrium and I didn’t mind.  I raised my hands to the white-and-black, trusting that pleasant sounds would emerge.  And they did.  Simple fare, yes, but pleasing to the ear.  After my initial foray into courage, I returned to the piano many times to nourish myself and others.

And then I was laid off.  Piano playing ceased.  I tucked it neatly onto my raft of memories and watched the music sail away.

After Jody and I moved to London, Ontario in 1990, the need to tickle the ivories seeped back. I tried to ignore the urge.  We moved to Union in 1994 and the music in my head persisted. Somewhere along the road we bought a Roland keyboard.

I had my moments where the music flowed from the fingers again, where the unknown melodies soared.  Most of the time, though, what the piano gathered around itself was dust.

Since 2016, I’ve lived in Belmont.  The keyboard sits in a place of honour in my bedroom, looking out the tall windows to the field beyond.  The candleholder perched on top reminds me of what the instrument has become – an environment for soft evening light cast against the bedroom walls.  A setting, rather than the centrepiece.

Enough.

It’s time to play.  Half an hour ago I did, first brushing the accumulation of years from the piano bench.  I felt awkward.  Discordant, along with some of the notes I hit.  But there was memory too … of an atrium, of simple melody, of folks glancing over to me from the edges of their newspapers.

I asked myself “What do you know about playing piano?”  “Not much” came back.  But that’s not true.  Even though I don’t at this moment recollect how to string a melody together, how to spontaneously let the hands flow, I know this can return.  And I know that if I play in the key of C Major, I can add chords that go with it, such as F Major, G Major, D Minor, E Minor and A Minor.  Just like on the guitar, I can create.

A few minutes ago, a loose feeling came along, just a hint of the ease of decades ago.  I smiled.  It’s been a long time.

I’m so taken with the hit song from the film A Star Is Born.  It’s called Shallow.  On Sunday night, it just might win the Oscar for Best Song.  I’m going to listen to it on my phone now.  Then I’m going into the bedroom and give ‘er a go on the piano.  Stay tuned.

***

Oh my God – it’s in the key of G.  Lady Gaga is blasting the song and I’m stumbling along the whites and an F# black … to the melody!  Yes, stumbling is the word but so what?  It’s a beginning.  I can do this.  Once I have the melody, I can add the major and minor chords in the left hand.  And soon, wonder upon wonders, I can sing the words while I play.  I can put it all together.  I can do this!

And so I will

 

 

Just Be There

I was cruising The Toronto Star newspaper tonight when I came upon an article about a dad and his adult daughter. They had agreed to make a cake together for her young godson. Dad was pooped and wanted to order from a bakery. She persisted and he got to learn a little more about life:

My baby girl has grown into a generous, tolerant, openminded young woman. I swallow my pride and head to the kitchen to make the cake but little do I know that the lesson is not over. “Dad, I don’t want you to make the cake. I just want you to be there.” Who is the parent now?

It’s so tough sometimes to BE THERE. It’s so easy to forget that sometimes just sitting down at the end of the kitchen island is what they need and want.

I like to think that I often have cool things to say, in voice or in print. Many a time my generosity flows out. And the moments of eye contact that I share can touch people.

There are also the other times, when I’m so tired in the body, so distracted in the mind, so wounded in the soul. It feels like I have nothing to give … but that’s not accurate. I can offer my physical proximity to human beings, especially the hurting ones. Here are some places where I can plunk myself down:

1. The Grade 6 class of twenty-six kids and one adult. I volunteer there.

2. The Belmont Diner – at the horseshoe-shaped lunch counter or at the table for six to the left of the front door. I often eat breakfast there.

3. The home that is the home of Acoustic Spotlight house concerts every Wednesday evening. I listen to folk music there.

4. The group internet calls of the Evolutionary Collective. I’m there about five times a week.

5. Times when I sit with one other person, in my home or out for lunch. My presence is a gift to them as theirs is to me.

Lots to give
Apparently little to give
They’re neighbours, you know

Singing Like There’s No Tomorrow

I ask myself what can launch me into an altered state of consciousness. But it’s more than that. The deepest beauty is being launched into a state of communion with another human being, or with a group of them. What can propel me into the power of selfless love?

Seeing a person perform an act of kindness is one trigger. Or even reading about it. Looking way deep into another’s eyes is also transforming. And then there’s singing. Eighteen months ago, I stood alone on the outdoor stage at Tanglewood in Massachusetts … and I sang. It was Someday Soon by Ian Tyson. My audience was two.

I gave it all I had – loud, head up, joy on my face:

So blow you old blue northern
Blow my love to me
He’s driving in tonight from California
He loves his damned old rodeo
As much as he lives me
Someday soon, going with him someday soon

Singing so lustily opened something in me. There was a freedom beyond thought. I sang to my friends at the back of the hall, and I believe they “heard” … to the depths of their being.

Cynthia Bourgeault has something to say here:

We know in a very personal way that singing will often bring into play a heightened range of emotion not accessible through speaking alone. The lyrics of a song – say, “Silent Night” – can look bland and harmless on a page, but when you actually sing them (particularly with others), a magical transformation occurs.

On Saturday evening, I saw two films. I’ve written about the first one – Stan and Ollie. The second was A Star Is Born. Lady Gaga plays Ally, an aspiring singer who catches the eye and heart of a famous rocker (Bradley Cooper as Jackson). She’s written a song. He’s created an arrangement for it. And during a concert, he challenges her to come onstage and sing it with him. The lyrics open with the man singing and soon it’s time for the woman’s response. As the moment approaches, Ally is trembling offstage. Suddenly her face tightens and seconds later she walks towards the microphone. On cue, her voice and soul explode to the audience. Face shining, mouth wide open. Nothing held back.

We in the theatre and they in the stadium are transported. There’s thunderous applause in the company of a woman who’s flooding the world.

I’m off the deep end, watch as I dive in
I’ll never meet the ground
Crash through the surface, where they can’t hurt us
We’re far from the shallow now

Infinitely far from the shallow. “Up where we belong”. My head rises. My heart beats in unison with Ally’s. There’s work to be done in this world and I’m here to do my version of it. Thank you, Lady Gaga.

Stan and Ollie

I was ten years old, in Grade 5 at Bedford Park Public School in Toronto.  The school had a fun night for us kids and I remember it felt very special to be showing up there in the evening.  There were all sorts of cool stations, such as standing in front of a projector while a mom traced my silhouette on black construction paper.  As I cut out the image, I was in wonder that this was me.  I’m real.

Further on in the evening, after oodles of popcorn and sweets, we sat in the gym and watched a movie.  It was Laurel and Hardy at their slapstick best.  Laurel, pencil-thin with the most flexible face I’d ever seen … and Hardy, so very fat and jolly, complete with a little Hitler moustache (although I’d never heard of that guy).

I was transfixed and exploding regularly with laughter.  Self-esteem wasn’t my best subject and what a blessing to be so very happy in the company of my friends.

Laurel and Hardy clearly sunk deep inside this insecure boy, and stayed there.  On Saturday, I was searching for a movie to see in London.  Stan and Ollie was playing at the Hyland Cinema and it was already speaking to me.  The story focused on their later years, well after the popularity of their one hundred films.  The end of the celebrity was coming and two very human beings presented themselves to me … at odds with each other and yet deeply loving each other.  Here’s a review:

Jeff Pope’s script gives us two men whose partnership needs an audience to thrive.  Alone they’re close but often businesslike, held back; with even a single pair of eyes on them they blossom into life, slipping into routines in the hope of raising a smile.  Every audience from one to a million gets the same amount of effort.

I’m here to perform.  I’m here to be around people and hopefully touch their lives.  Hopefully make them smile.

At one point late in their journey together, Stan looks at Ollie and says “You don’t love me.  You love Laurel and Hardy.”  Biting words, and Ollie chooses not to send the venom back.  As his health declines and he declares retirement, and thus the end of walking onstage, there’s a scene in bed.  Ollie is tired in his PJs and Stan crawls in beside him, fully clothed.  They sit there holding hands, and we the audience are moved.  Simple contact forged over decades of friendship and collegiality.

Here’s another reviewer:

After that delightful prologue, Stan & Ollie begins in earnest – sixteen years later, by which time Laurel and Hardy – now competing with television, their own reruns and a couple of imitators named Abbott and Costello – have been forced to tour second-tier theaters in Britain, staying in un-grand hotels and playing to half-empty houses.  They’re not happy about it, but they’re troupers above all else, playing their classic “bits” as if they’re discovering them for the first time.  Written with compassion and worshipful wit by Jeff Pope, Stan & Ollie pays tribute to a bygone era when a little song, a little dance, a dollop of slapstick and some clever stage patter counted as enormously successful pop entertainment.  By dint of sheer self-preservation and professionalism, Stan and Ollie manage to turn their final tour together into a triumph, not knowing that it’s a curtain call, not just for their nearly 30-year partnership but for an entire culture.

I see the history of Bruce as I sit in the Hyland.  A little boy, laughing and laughing at big men.  Now I’m a big man myself and happily I’ve not let the joy slip out of my life.  In the falling away of Laurel and Hardy, and of slapstick humour, I see my own future ending.  I expect lots of raucous silliness between now and then.  And I hope that some kids, when they’re in their forties, will look back on their childhood and remember me with fondness.  “Mr. Kerr – he was pretty strange … and nice.”

Harold and Ian … and Linda

I went to see a kids’ hockey game in London yesterday afternoon.  I was going to see a movie there in the evening.  Between, I wanted to find a cozy place for supper and to write my blog post.  I didn’t have a clue what I was going to say but virtually always something comes out to ask for expression.  (This, twenty-two hours later, is that post.)

It had been a long time since I’d been in the Morrissey House and so my nose led me there.  How about a beer and some funky British dish?  The angled wooden bar seats six people.  A young couple were off to the right and an older guy was hunkered down on the left edge.  I sat down two seats from him.

It’s unusual in my life that someone says hi before I do but today was my lucky day.  “Harold” was engaged in a conversation with the bartender, and included me.  It sounded like they were negotiating a trade, and indeed they were.

“How about four cuts for the painting?” offered the bartender.

“Sounds fair to me, ” returned Harold.

Wow.  If only all of life’s exchanges could be so simple.

Turns out that Harold is a barber in the back of a high-end men’s clothing store.  And Mr. Bartender is a painter.  I Googled the shop and found out that cool services such as a “hot towel shave” were on offer.

“I bet you know what you’re doing when you’re looking down on someone’s hair, Harold,” I chimed in.

“I’m good at what I do.”

How refreshing.  Someone who sees their ability accurately, without pomp and circumstance.

I looked more closely at the employees flitting to and fro.  They were often smiling.  And they wore black t-shirts.  On the front was “I ♥ the MO.”  On the back … “I am human and I need to be loved.”  Okay.  This is my type of place.  I asked my friend who was pouring drinks “Who owns the Morrissey House?”  The reply was accompanied by a gesturing arm.  “The fellow in the ball cap – Mark.”  He was seating a couple at a window table.  Big smile.  No edge.  Homey.  I like this room and its inhabitants.

Harold and I got going about Newfoundland.  We both were in St. John’s in September.  We talked about getting “screeched in” on George Street, and the astonishing host at Christian’s Bar who learned, and remembered, everyone’s name.  There must have been thirty people  participating in the ceremony.  That was a moment last night when Harold and I locked eyes in admiration for a young Newfie guy with fully operating brain cells.

We talked of the bright colours of St. John’s, the many homes painted in red, yellow or blue.  We talked of the people who laid open their welcome mats for us.  We were instant friends.

Harold is a regular at Morrissey’s and an hour after our first contact here comes “Ian”, another one.  He sits between us.  There’s an Irish lilt in his words as he tells me he’s from Corner Brook, Newfoundland.  Ian regales me with the beauty of Gros Morne National Park near his hometown, and soon it’s a three-way conversation about the wonders of St. John’s eateries and drinkeries.  “Did you go to Quidi Vidi?” > “Yes!  And the Quidi Vidi Brewing Company with its wooden paddle full of beer samples.” > “How about Linda’s Place there, right across from Mallard Cottage?” > “I was in Mallard Cottage but I don’t remember anything across the street.”  >  “It had another name but Linda was the star.  What a character!”

Wow.  Look at what I was in the middle of (well, actually on the right end).  Three senior guys whooping it up in memory.  I got Google Maps going on my phone and found Mallard Cottage.  When I enlarged the screen, I saw “Inne of Olde” across the street from Mallard.  I enlarged the photo of a smiling woman and showed it to my fellows.  “That’s Linda!” bellowed Harold.  And we all laughed some more.

Here’s a Google comment about Linda’s place:

Linda (the owner) has so much heart for those around her, and anyone that comes in is another new friend or family member to her.  Welcoming atmosphere, with trinkets from around the world and often stories along with them.

Definitely worth the stop in for a pint or a shot or three.

I’ll definitely come back every time I’m in St. John’s with a few friends in tow.  The YACC community will keep coming back, Linda, from your adopted cancer kids – we love you!

Wow all over again
Morrissey’s and Linda’s
Harold and Ian and Linda and Bruce
And a smiling young couple at the other end of the bar

London Junior Hockey

I’m sitting in the last row of Budweiser Gardens, the 9000-seat arena that’s the home of the London Knights. These young men, ages 16-20, dream of a career in professional hockey, perhaps as a member of the Toronto Maple Leafs, or maybe the Detroit Red Wings.

This is my first Knights game of the year. I only know of three players – Alex Formenton and Evan Bouchard played a few games in the National Hockey League and were then returned to junior hockey. Liam Foudy is merely a name I’ve heard of. So I haven’t been engaged in a deep feeling of “team”, a group that I’d be passionate to cheer on. My connection is simply that I live close to London. Unlike the Leafs, players on the Knights have a short shelf life before they’re on to something else in their hockey career.

The game has just started. It’s dark up here but brilliantly white on the ice, which is shiny with the lights. My first thought? It’s so pretty! Human jewels, some in black with gold, and some in white with gold, are flitting over the surface. It feels like a white Christmas tree. Perhaps this isn’t the analysis you were expecting from a hockey fan but it works for me.

The Knights have just scored the opening goal on a “2 on 1” (two players rushing towards the opposing goal while one defenseman tries to fend them off). The goalie leans toward the puck carrier who then slips the disc over to his friend > goalie out of position > empty net > goal! So sweet. Such grace in motion. I stand and applaud although my heart doesn’t really soar with the Knights. It’s just fun to cheer.

The computer on the big screen is exhorting us to “Make Some Noise!” I’m always suspicious of such forced enthusiasm. I figure that the brilliance of the play is what should get me out of my seat. I stay on my bum.

Okay, now it’s time for the great Harvey’s hamburger giveaway. Everybody in one section of the stands (out of perhaps 30) gets their hunger appeased. I’m in 315. There’s a counter on the big screen, going pretty fast. And now it’s slowing down … 311 … 312 … 313 … 314 … (pause) … 315! Oh, Harvey, I love you. Folks around me are standing and cheering.

After a few more goals, it’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for: the McDonald’s Big Mac Attack Challenge. It’s 6:48 left in the second period. If the Knights score by 4:48, everyone in the building gets a burger. Oh my. And then … a close-in play in front of Erie’s net, a flick of the stick, and in! 5:34 to go. A two-burger night!

Now I’m in Harvey’s, having consumed my free Original Burger and my not-free fries. I’m happy. The game ended in a very short overtime period, which is played with just three skaters on each side. It’s très exciting since the skilled players have so much room to wheel and deal. Alex Formenton roared down the ice for the Knights, with ending the game on his mind. But he was checked neatly by an Erie defenseman and the play surged the other way. In five seconds, the puck was in the London net, and the game was indeed over. I was okay … the final flourish was spectacular.

My only sadness concerned the woman I had been laughing with most of the game. She gathered her family, turned away from me, and left. No goodbye. I felt the loss.

It was a night out with spiraling energies, happy moments and sad moments, sublime skill and silly mistakes. A lot like life.