Monthly Archives: October 2019

Love and Hate

First of all, I’m fine. The X-ray and CT scan last night showed nothing major. I’ve been taking Tylenol and magically I have no pain right now, just a sensation in my neck. What a lucky boy am I! I’ll rest up and go see Jess, my physio. Scarlet will take two weeks in getting herself repaired and meantime my garage is hosting Bullet, a silver Ford Focus.

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Second of all, I’m really in the dark about things. The power went off thirty minutes ago and isn’t expected back on for another 2-3 hours. We’ll see if I have enough juice in the phone to complete this post. I’m sitting with my friends Candle and Flashlight. We’re having a good time.

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I’m an avid tennis fan. I especially like watching the women pros hit the ball. I’m enthralled with Bianca Andreescu, a young Canadian woman who won the US Open in September. The Women’s Tennis Association (WTA) offers lots of posts on Facebook. I participate. Here are a couple of things I’ve said about Bianca:

I hope you realize, Bianca, what an incredible role model you are for young girls. You’re real. You show sadness, joy, confidence, anguish, determination when you’re feeling each of those things. No false modesty. No suppression. Lots of aliveness.

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I’m so impressed with the human being that Bianca is. Her smiles are real. Her compassion shines bright. Sure, she plays great tennis and wins championships but she’s far bigger than that.

Some folks’ first response is to criticize. Others start with appreciation. I think the world needs a lot more kindness.

~~~~~

Countless people share my admiration for Bianca. However, there are those on the Internet whose glass seems to be empty. They prefer to attack:

Andreescu is a drama queen and a mercenary traitor.

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All year she has been faking injuries … See how lying is wrong?

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I hope she breaks her legs.

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Ms. Piggy

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Andreescu is too chubby.

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That woman is always showing such a lack of sportsmanship. She is certainly one of the worst personalities in tennis right now.

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So fake.

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Cheap crap! Same spoiled child attitude!

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Andreescu is so hard to like.

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Such a bad handshake from Andreescu. Pathetic.

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Andreescu is too fat.

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Theatre.

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Andreescu needs to stop acting like she’s injured when she’s not.

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She’s just too full of it and cocky.

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She’s selfish.

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Class is so far away from Andreescu as class gets.

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Bianca’s attitude was a bit unfair and fake.

~~~~~

Oh my. Such venom. It leaps out into the world … and finds its way back to the one starting it all. There is truly no cheese down that tunnel.

I’m sad for those among us who do such damage. What must their lives be like? What must their loved ones’ lives be like?

~~~~~

Let us pray for all beings
Large and small
Hurtful and hurting
Blessing and blessed
We all deserve a second chance

Whiplash

I never made it to the folk concert. I was turning left on a green light in the rain and dark when I saw a woman crossing the street. I jammed on my brakes but the fellow behind me smashed into Scarlet. As I got his insurance and phone number, I noticed that he didn’t even apologize. His girlfriend did, however.

I’m in the Emergency Department of Victoria Hospital in London, staring at the ceiling. I’ve been decked out with an attractive neck collar. A bright red board lies under my bod, a designer model I believe. I’m glad the staff are being careful with me.

On my way to and from X-ray, I watched blue-clad me pass under these clear globes at intersections. I’ve never seen myself from that view before.

The doctor just came visiting. He says I don’t need the neck collar. Yay! Physio and plenty of soreness will be in my future. I can live with that.

In the further expression of thoroughness, they’re about to do a CT Scan on me. Okay … bring it on.

Bottom line, folks … I’m fine. Worry not.

My phone is dying. Long live my phone.

Go To Life

I was home this morning and feeling emotionally flat. The world was lying heavy on my head. As in the poem Casey at the Bat, “there was no joy in Mudville.” How strange, I thought. I’m not usually like this.

I could feel myself slumping, both physically and spiritually. And the pull was strong … to bed. It was 11:00 am. An Internet call with members of Evolutionary Collective Global was on tap for noon. Those calls are such an opportunity to be with other human beings in a very deep way but I was already saying no.

Clothes off, covers pulled back and soon the comforter was tucked under my chin. A day of rest and isolation beckoned. Sometime in the afternoon I’d meditate for awhile, just me and my soul. Maybe there’ll be a hockey game on TV tonight … I could veg to the skating artistry of Mitch Marner. Eyelids fell towards sleep.

And then …

Go to life.

What? What did you say? (You heard me) And indeed I had. The voice within jolted me awake.

There are times to hunker down and rest. This is not one of them. Go to people. Give them all you have. Start with the ECG call. There might be twenty men and women from all over, folks to contribute to. Then go volunteer in the Grade 6 class – twenty-four kids and one teacher need your presence, your words, your kindness. And then, get to the gym. One hour on the elliptical would do just fine. After that, have supper somewhere and then go to the folk music concert at Acoustic Spotlight. Once all that’s done, go home and go to bed.

Well, aren’t you a pushy fellow.

You need it.

No, I don’t.

Yes, you do. Get out there and live your life.

(Sigh)

***

I did. I’m in Wimpy’s Diner as I write this. And then it’s off to hear the music of Larry Smith and Tara Dunphy.

Sometimes you have to heed the call.

Hobson and Juliette

I had lunch today with my friend Arlene at Shelly’s in London.  We talked for two hours.  It seemed clear to me that what brings her the most happiness is her two grandchildren.  Juliette is 10 and I think Hobson is 7.  The smile across the table said it all.

I thought Arlene said “Thompson” but, no, that wasn’t right.  It was “Hobson”.  Such an unusual name.  The young man’s parents, Lydia and Chris, are in the Canadian Forces, stationed at Petawawa, Ontario.  They met long ago when they both joined the Hobson Platoon.  I wondered what inspired them to give their son that name.

Frederick Hobson emigrated here from England and enlisted when Canada entered World War I.  He was sent overseas and fought the Germans.  He died in Lens, France in 1917 and was posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross for bravery.  Here’s a newspaper account:

During a strong enemy counterattack, a Lewis gun in a forward post in a communication trench leading to the enemy lines was buried by a shell, and the crew, with the exception of one man, was killed.  Sergeant Hobson, though not a gunner, grasping the great importance of the post, rushed from his trench, dug out the gun, and got it into action against the enemy who were now advancing down the trench and across the open.  A jam caused the gun to stop firing.  Though wounded, he left the gunner to correct the stoppage, rushed forward at the advancing enemy and with bayonet and clubbed rifle single-handedly held them back until he himself was killed by a rifle shot.  By this time however, the Lewis gun was again in action and with reinforcements shortly afterwards arriving, the enemy were beaten off.  The valour and devotion to duty displayed by this non-commissioned officer gave the gunner the time required to again get the gun into action, and saved a most serious situation.

Chris and Lydia were so moved by Sergeant Hobson’s sacrifice that they wanted his name to live on.  A happy young boy now carries it.

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Lydia was pregnant in 2008.  She had learned about General Romeo Dallaire, a general in the Canadian Forces.

Dallaire served as Force Commander of the United Nations Assistance Mission for Rwanda, the ill-fated United Nations peacekeeping force for Rwanda, between 1993 and 1994, and attempted to stop the genocide that was being waged by Hutu extremists against the Tutsi people and Hutu moderates.

Seeing the impact of this great humanitarian, Lydia wanted to name her future son “Romeo”.  Except that a girl was placed in her arms.  Mom and dad knew what to do.  They chose the name “Juliet”.  Since Chris’ mom was French-Canadian, the parents expanded the name to the Francophone version “Juliette”.

***

I sat enthralled as the grandkids came alive for me.  “They love each other so much,” said grandma.  Juliette and Hobson are at the same school but on a different recess schedule.  As Juliette’s recess ends, she lingers on the yard until Hobson emerges from the school … to give him a hug and a kiss.

Ahh, love.  Where would we be without it?

Slo Mo

I love watching women.  I love watching women tennis players.  This week the best eight players in the world are competing in the WTA Finals.  The matches aren’t available on TV in Canada.  Instead I see them on DAZN, a streaming service.  It’s pretty cool … everything in HD, and no commercials.

The video cameramen and women are brilliant, not just during the run of play but also when the athletes are resting between games.  What’s especially marvelous are the closeups of human beings, and the times when the grace of tennis is revealed in slow motion.  I just stared this morning at the beauty of it all.  Here are some of my favourite moments:

1.  A young girl in the audience, eyes soft, her head resting on her arm

2.  A photographer’s index finger poised on the button of his camera

3.  A player running after the ball … the rippling of the thigh muscles as the foot lands

4.  A closeup of a player’s eyes as she ponders life while resting on her bench

5.   Fingers curled in a fist pump as she celebrates a winner

6.  An Asian spectator, her mouth forming a circle after a great shot

7.  A hand gently squeezing a ball, ready to serve

8.  The flex of the foot on the serve, the muscle above the tennis shoe moving with the tendon

9.  A cut on the leg, the blood dabbed away and then slowly reappearing

10.  Just a ball floating upwards on the serve … oh so slowly

11.  The hands of two champions coming together at the end of the match

***

The slow motion created these dances
I was transfixed by the loveliness, the flow, the rhythms of sport
Thank you, DAZN

Monster Walk

On Saturday morning, at least 200 mini-ghosts and princesses walked down Main Street in Belmont, Ontario, searching for goodies.  “Mary”, the owner of the Belmont Diner, had asked me to dress up and hand out candy from 10:00 till noon.  Yes, of course I would!

The day before, I went to a costume store and picked up a greyish black handlebar moustache that made me look extinguished.  I thought about adding a black wig for consistency but then reasoned that the blond one I had at home would do just fine.

Then it was off to Value Village for the subtle tones of a shirt and pants.  A bright orange top drew me in and resistance was futile.  As for the pants, I couldn’t imagine I’d find an appropriate pair in the men’s section, so I asked a saleswoman what size I’d be in female lingo.  She thought a 12.  Alrighty then.  Lurking on the rack in front of me were bright pink trousers.  I rushed to the change room to check out the effect but couldn’t get into the pinks.  Down another aisle was a glowing turquoise version of conservatism.  Yes again.  A perfect 14!

At home there was the wig, a red foam nose and a blue fish head to frame it all.  When I created costumes in the past, I always got the question “What are you?”  Saturday was the same.  I still didn’t have an answer.

Mary had cute little plastic bags stuffed with chocolate unknowns.  I was ready.  Shortly after 10:00, the trail of young costumites and their parents wound its way to the Diner’s front door.  I had the vague idea that my job would be done in thirty minutes but the answer to that was “Not!”  The flow flowed for nearly two hours.

Kids would come into the restaurant looking impossibly cute and glance around, not knowing where to go.  I was at the far end in full regalia, waving my hands in unison and yelling “Hello!  Over here for the candy.”  Wary little ones, often urged on by mom, found their way to me.

I saw so many glimmering dresses.  So many masked demons.  And I looked into so many eyes.  Put so many bags into so many hands.  It was special.  Many kids didn’t know what to make of me but they all enjoyed receiving my gifts.  The stream of young humanity was virtually constant and so was my happiness.  Eyes of wonder.  Mine and theirs.

When the bags were just about gone, Mary pulled out a box of tiny chocolate bars.  All was well … until about 11:30, when there were maybe thirty bars left.  I moseyed over to a table of women regulars and asked if someone would walk over to the nearby grocery store and pick up more treats.  “Barb” bounced up off her seat and headed out the door.  I was handing over my very last bars when she came back.  The universe was truly unfolding as it should.

I was happy
The kids were happy
And I think the cosmos was wearing a big smile

Post-Elton

Sometimes at school, there’s a sharing circle where kids talk about their weekend.  With some of them, there’s a feeling of “I did this, I did that.”  The listing of events usually doesn’t move me.  I want to hear about some juicy moment.

Last night’s concert was stunning.  Wanting to tell you the details, I feel myself searching for a list: This happened, and then that, and then the other thing.  This song, then that one.  But right now, those details aren’t coming to me.  What can I say that will give you the juice?  Well.  I don’t know.  Maybe I’ll just trust that something good will come out of my fingers.

The man sat and stood at his piano for two and three-quarter hours.  Just Elton and his band.  No breaks.  Both the tiny figure on the stage and the vibrating human on the big screen were committed to us, determined that we would have an outstandingly good time.

The voice is absolutely unique – resonant, passionate, so beautifully present in every phrase.  The fingers flew over the keys in impossible combos.  And thanks to a close-up view on the screen, we got to see the flying.

Elton wore one long sequined coat and later another one.  I especially liked the floral jacket.  And the glasses … shining in the night.  He often stood and received our applause.  His extended his arms and gave it right back to his 15,000 friends.  It was a love-in.

He’s been making music for us for fifty years.  Last night was his twenty-sixth concert in Toronto.  He said he doesn’t need any more applause.  He wants to stop.  He wants to be with his young sons.  You go do that, my friend.

Onstage he loved Marilyn Monroe throughout Candle in the Wind.  He called out to Daniel.  He sang seemingly forever to Levon while his three drummers traded virtuosities back and forth.  He called out to us fans in Your Song.  And he took off with Rocket Man, treating us with out-of-this-world visuals and a sweet echoing of the title.  Gosh … Elton did just about everything.

Often I looked around the arena and watched the love.  So many times we stood and applauded.  So many times we thanked this humble British fellow who’s filled our lives with music.  Fifty years of contributing to human beings.  Wow.  And yet I know I’ve done the same, just without the public persona, the huge crowds, the fame.  We need to honour both Elton John and the spirit shining bright in each of us.  We make a difference, we human beings, as we stroll the sidewalks of our lives, as we talk to those who come our way.

Someone saved my life last night, and we the audience saved his

Sweet freedom whispered in my ear
You’re a butterfly
And butterflies are free to fly
Fly away, high away
Bye bye

Goodbye Elton.  Thank you

Pre-Elton

Many of the kids in the Grade 5/6 class didn’t know who Elton John was. Oh my. How did I get this old? I showed them a YouTube video of Elton blasting out “Rocketman” in New York City’s Madison Square Garden. He glowed in a sparkling maroon jacket. Not much response from the young ones … and that’s okay.

Maybe ten years ago, Jody and I were ready at 10:00 am for the beginning of ticket sales for Elton in London, Ontario. I think she was on the Internet and me on the phone. We scored precisely zero, and the tickets were gone in seven minutes. What oh what went wrong?

Jody died a few years later, never having heard “Crocodile Rock” live. How sad for my dear wife. I wondered if I would ever hear the man in concert.

About a year ago, I heard that Elton was launching a farewell tour. It was finally time for retirement. “Okay, Bruce, get your rear in gear.” By the time I mobilized my backend, the event was sold out. (Sigh) And then a few months ago, my phone told me that Elton had just added more dates. Finally I seized the moment, and I was heading to Scotiabank Arena in Toronto on October 24, 2019, which happens to be today! So cool.

This afternoon, after muddling through thick traffic on the 401 for nearly three hours, I finally pulled into the Weston UP Express station. A leisurely twenty minutes later in a packed train, I was deposited only a few hundred metres from Elton land.

I’m actually here, and so is my beloved. Together we are fulfilling a dream that’s decades long. It’s 7:53, and dear Elton hopefully will favour us with his passion in seven minutes. Many thousands of human beings are sharing the space with me. Good for us.

There’ll be a “Post-Elton” post coming your way soon. Right now, a little smile has taken up residence on my face.

Voices and a Cookie

I volunteer in a Grade 5/6 class.  Wonderful kids.  They create so many moments for me, some of which I’ll remember for the rest of my days.  Last week, I had challenged these young ones to sing “O Canada” with me when our anthem was played over the PA system.  Today, when I realized that the announcements were coming on in a few minutes, I piped up with “Remember the challenge!  You don’t have to do it, but …”

And then the opening chords of the song.  I looked at the wall and let the words flow from my mouth.  Tilting my head a mite, there was the chorus.  I don’t know how many kids of the twenty-four were singing but it was more than a few.  Ahh.  Life is good.

There is great power in putting out a challenge and having it accepted by some.  It feels warm inside.  It makes me wish that I had a time machine and could leap forward into these folks’ lives.  Will thirty-year-olds sing their anthem at hockey games?  Will they believe in their country?  I hope so.

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As the bell rang, announcing recess, I plucked my coat from its hook.  “Lisa”, a Grade 5 girl, came bouncing up to me, plastic bag in hand.  “Would you like a cookie, Mr. Kerr?”  I gazed down into the bottom to find some black spots on said cookie.  Red alert!  Specifically a raisin alert.  I looked at Lisa, grimaced, and said “I hate raisins.  That’s so kind of you to offer and someday soon I’ll definitely accept if you give me another variety.”  She smiled and I returned the favour.

How lovely that she thought of me and was brave enough to come over and hold out the bag.  I feel honoured, cherished.  Just as lovely was me telling her the truth.  Kids deserve the truth.  My dislike for raisins has no impact on my relationship with Lisa.  I’ll always enjoy the kind and generous humans who come my way.  One of these days, another plastic bag will hold a chocolate chip goodie, or maybe a peanut butter one.  Lisa will give and I will receive.

***

I need kids in my life
Some kids enjoy having me in theirs
We are both teacher and student

Last

I watched the Grade 3’s to 6’s run cross-country today at Fanshawe Conservation Area. We were one of maybe twenty schools churning their guts out over hill and dale. Every race had at least one kid from home and I applauded lustily.

The surge of children flying over the first few hundred metres was spectacular … an absolute flood of power roared by me. After they’d disappeared past a grove of trees, I sauntered over to another viewing spot about halfway along the race. When the boys or girls reached this stretch, they were strung out and breathing hard.

I know me, and I know what I love to do – cheer on every kid, no matter what school they represented. So each race I clapped and exhorted from the first athlete to the last.

And there at the end were the true lessons of the day. Sure, the leaders were marvelous athletes worthy of all the praise raining down, but the true heroes trailed the pack. Exhaustion danced with embarrassment and a determination to finish. No shining medals for these folks. Usually it was just me and the high school volunteer marshals who remained on the course to cheer on the stragglers. It’s lonely being last.

I remember.

Way back in Grade 8, I was a nerdy kid who had never ventured onto a team. At Field Day in June, the principal had lined up all the Grade 7 and Grade 8 girls and boys across the wide expanse of our schoolyard for a 100 yard dash. I’d guess that there were three classes in each grade, with maybe 30 students in each. So … about 180 of us were off with the gun.

You know how this story ends. For awhile, I thought my physical weakmess and flaring acne would be the end of me. But they weren’t. I turned out just fine.

I’m with you, dear last place finishers in today’s meet. There’s a bond between us, and the path ahead is very much alive. On we go.