Author Archives: Bruce

Grade 6 and Me

It’s been a long time since I’ve had kids in my life.  I went on short term disability in November, 2013 to care for my dear wife Jody.  That was it.  Now I’m retired.

On Monday, I received word from the Ontario Provincial Police that my fingerprints were fine.  I had passed the criminal check.  So on to volunteering at an elementary school near Belmont.

On Tuesday afternoon, I started with Grade 6’s, led by a lovely teacher whom I’ll call Nicole.  “Would you like to read to the students?”  Of course.

The class was devouring Matilda, a book by Roald Dahl.  It’s the story of a remarkable 5-year-old girl, gifted in math, literature and tipping over water glasses with her mind.  Matilda becomes fast friends with her teacher, Miss Honey, and fast enemies with the school principal, Miss Trunchbull.  Here’s a taste of what Matilda had to overcome:

“You are a vile, repulsive, repellent, malicious little brute!” the Trunchbull was shouting.  “You are not fit to be in this school!  You ought to be behind bars, that’s where you ought to be!  I shall have you drummed out of this establishment in utter disgrace!”

Head down into the words, I launched myself into the roles, having entered the story midway.  I love reading out loud and I gave the Trunchbull all the nastiness I could muster.  Never once did I look up to see how the kids were reacting but I sensed they were having a grand old time.  Later Nicole told me so.

What an opportunity I have, to influence children once more.  May I help them see the gifts that they are.  Matilda had almost magical powers, probably beyond anything that the Grade 6 kids, Nicole or I can bring forth.  But every one of us has our own way of moving others, and may we discover that unique richness in each other’s company.

Paths Of The Soul

Tricycle is a spiritual magazine and website, offering the lens of Buddhism to our daily lives.  Included in the yearly membership of $40 US is their Film Club.  The November offering – Paths Of The Soul – was my companion a few nights ago.

My way is one way.  But there are so many others.  Start with an elderly Tibetan fellow who’s never travelled, instead serving family throughout his life.  Imagining death, he decides to go on a pilgrimage to Lhasa, the holy city.  It’s 1200 miles away.  Members of his family volunteer to accompany him, including an 8-year-old girl.  And others join in too.

They walk.  An animal skin covers their chest and legs.  They wear wooden paddles on their hands.  They clap the paddles above their heads, then twice at chest level.  And then they throw themselves forward onto the ground – a sliding prostration, a bow.  This happens every ten steps or so.

Oh my.  They’re really doing this.  All without griping.  Supporting each other through the pain.  Smiling.  It’s a spiritual journey far more than a spiritual destination.

I was transfixed by the young girl.  At one point, her hands hurt.  Adults encouraged her to stop bowing.  She didn’t … until they reached Lhasa.  She encouraged others.  She led.

One person drove a small tractor, which pulled a trailer full of tents and provisions.  Towards the end of the journey, a car sideswiped the tractor, breaking its axle.  No repair shops on the road to the holy city.  So the men pushed and pulled the trailer while the women continued to bow.  Once the men had completed a section of road, they left the trailer and went back to the beginning of that stretch.  They prostrated themselves while returning to the trailer.  And not a “poor me” to be heard.

Transport trucks roared by within feet of the travellers during the day, and kept them awake for much of the night.  So?  We carry on.

The group came to a flooded section of the road, with water about a foot deep.  They looked for a minute and then proceeded.  Paddle high, paddle middle, slide.

The patriarch died before reaching Lhasa.  The family mourned most tenderly, and finished the journey for him.

Another way.  A good way.  And I was privileged to see it all.

Root Canal

Moments keep showing up in my life, ones that I want to write about.  Such as the astonishing movie I saw Monday about a Tibetan family’s pilgrimage to the sacred Potala Palace.  Or yesterday afternoon, when I started my volunteer work in a local elementary school.

This morning I told myself to get writing.  Start with Tibet and then move on to Belmont.  But I decided to eat breakfast at the Diner and then mosey over to the elliptical at Wellington Fitness.  “That’s okay, I’ll get to those stories after this afternoon’s root canal.”

Sure.

Here I sit, ready for the Toronto Raptors basketball game, feeling like lukewarm poop.  I’d say my pain is at 4 on the scale of 1 to 10.  Not bad, but there.  Also I’m lightheaded, fuzzy, flat.  So how can I bring forth the joy of seeing the pilgrimage or laughing with those kids?  I want to talk about those things but if I tried right now it would be concepts, tepid words, nothing bringing forth the “Oh My God” freshness of those moments.

Instead, my head says two things:

1. Don’t even write.  You’re too weak.

2. Speak from your current experience.  It’s the best thing to speak of.

Okay, I choose number two.

***

You can’t even string words together, Bruce.  (Yes I can.  See above)

What if I felt this vagueness 24/7?  Would I still be able to being forth Spirit?

Take the Tylenol, Bruce.  (No, at least not with this level of pain.  How about if I let myself experience exactly what’s here?)

Do some people, not in pain, feel this way throughout their lives?  I suppose.  How can they possibly conjure up love, joy and peace?

It’s getting worse.  It’s now a 5.  (I don’t think so.  You’re making it up, just so you can get some drugs into your system)

Oh … here comes a headache.  (So?)

I figure, as I move towards my 70s, that physical pain will become a larger part of my life.  Maybe not.  But if it does, and my strength, endurance and flexibility decline, should my contributions to the world also diminish?  (No)

The game’s coming on.  Wrap it up.  (No.  I’ll keep looking to see if there’s more I want to say)

Maybe you should write about the Tibetan family and all those Grade 6s tonight.  Just keep going.  (No.  Heroism not required.  I’ll get to those topics when I have more energy)

You just counted the number of points you talked about below the asterisks.  It’s nine.  Why don’t you stop at ten?  (That’s silly.  It’s not a sporting contest.  Stats don’t matter.  Just look a bit more – a few more important things to say or not?)

Not.

Islander

I tootled off to Toronto Island yesterday, with a backpack containing two of Jody’s books.  I had a destination.  It’s a little kiosk on Algonquin Island, where you can take a book, leave a book.  So cool.

I sat on a bench nearby and wrote:

Dear Algonquin Island reader,

I hope you take a copy of Jody’s and my book from the Algonquin Island library.  It’s a love story.

Thank you for accompanying us on our journey.

Be well,

Bruce

Gosh, I felt good slipping the two volumes between other creations.  A day later, do they still sit there or is each one now residing on someone’s end table?  It doesn’t matter.  I know they’ll find their way into human hearts.

All pleased with myself, I decided to explore Snake Island, a tiny little thing joined to the main by a walking bridge.  No cutesy homes on Snake, just nature.

As I plopped my feet down onto a new world, I thought of my pocket.  Inside was a plastic bag, perfect for anti-littering.  I so much enjoy picking up garbage and removing it from the paths of life.  I drifted down the trail, seeing this and that in the realm of manmade objects.  They got stuffed.  For awhile I was 100%, but as my bag filled as well as a discarded fabric cooler, my leaning over quotient started to max out.  There were just so many “things”.  Finally, I declared completion.  The rest of the little buggers will just have to sit there until the next explorer comes along.  Back over the bridge from Snake, there sat a black garbage can.  Cha-ching!

A notice board drew me.  And there it was … my next adventure.  There’s one church on Toronto Island, and on Sunday, November 20 it’s hosting first a brunch and second a concert, featuring a folk music duo.  I’ll be mellowing out on the carless island, just like a local.  Sweet.

Library , litter and lyrics.  I’m there.

 

 

 

Bloom Where You’re Replanted

I’m waiting for Jody’s bronze plaque to be inserted into a recessed spot on the back of her bench.  My dear wife will be known in front of the Belmont post office.  I’m so happy I’m doing this.

In Memory Of
Jody Kerr
A marvelous human being and my life wife
I love you, my dear Jodiette

When I was hatching my plan, I was happy to see a deciduous tree behind the bench, shading all who sit there on a hot summer’s day.  I want the place to be a refuge for all Belmontonians, actually for everyone who comes by and lingers awhile.

A few weeks ago, I was driving by and something seemed to be missing.  The tree!  It had been removed.  It had looked a little worse for the wear but I hadn’t expected a disappearance.

I moped about this reality for a week or two and finally decided to talk to Eva in the post office.  “I sure hope Canada Post will be replacing that tree.”  “Oh yes, but it’ll take some time before they come up with the money.”  (Sigh)

And then I did what any virgin Belmontonian would have done in my circumstance:

“I’ll buy the tree”

Eva smiled.  Me too.

The next day I sauntered off to Canadale Nurseries to seek a tree.  I wanted a big maple, fast growing, with brilliant red leaves in the fall.  “That would be an Autumn Blaze,” so said Jim, the knower of all things plantacious.  “We don’t have any in stock but I can get a fifteen footer next April.”

And so it will be.  For Jody.  For me.  For Belmont.  For human beings everywhere.  The tree will grow 2-3 feet a year, topping out at around 50 feet, most likely after I’ve exited the planet.  May it bring joy to us all.

Include

I’ve always wanted to attend a concert at Toronto’s Massey Hall and last night “wanted” became “did”.  Loreena McKennitt sat on stage way below me, with a cellist and guitarist.  They were accompanied by five tall candelabras, each hosting seven candles.  Soft light was everywhere, including the ceiling, which reminded me of a cave’s stalactites.  Massey Hall is a grand old building, erected in 1894.  It has two horseshoe-shaped balconies.

And then there was Loreena, she of the soaring voice, and a love affair with the Celts and their music.  She has travelled the world in search of their stories and we are the richer for it.

How can a blog post describe that voice?  It flowed through me, vibrating.  And so did runs from the cellist.  I was brought to silence and then to wild clapping.  Everything stopped inside and out.  I believe we were all touched.

Within this aura were other things:

1. Staff members walking left and right across my field of vision during songs – at least thirty times.

2. The young woman sitting in front of me usually leaning forward, partially blocking my view of the performers.  She had lovely long hair.  At intermission, I asked the guy beside me a question about the ceiling lights.  The person in front turned around to answer … and it was a man.

3. The cell phone of the woman beside me went off during a song.  She managed to get it shut off but soon was perusing the glowing screen to find out the latest from her world.

4. I needed a bathroom break but so did a hundred other men.  Washrooms were located next to the merchandise table so it was pedestrian gridlock, of the bursting bladder variety.

To all of which I say “So what?”  The context of the evening was transcendental.  No amount of life’s tiny travails could change that.  I glowed along with Loreena.

Expression

I wanted to put energy out into the world today.  I wanted to do things, with no concern about how people would react.  So I did.

1. I watched an erotic video.  It was so cool.  Clearly the couple loved each other very much.

2. I walked to the Belmont Diner.  I could have driven.  Three minutes compared to twenty.  I love to walk, seeing the world unfold before me.

3.  At the Diner, I met a woman and told her my name was George.  Jean was sitting beside her, and laughed.  She knew my name was really Oscar.

4.  I had pancake and sausages.  Pretty fatty, Bruce.  Too bad, Bruce.

5.  I waxed poetic with a fellow at the lunch counter about Tarandowah, the golf course I love.  I talked about the beauty of the course, rather than scores and swings.  He was willing to share his favourite hole (13) as I shared mine (14).

6.  Back at home, I tried to figure out a grommet kit I’d bought, so I could line up my funky new shower curtain with the separately purchased liner.  Couldn’t make head or tail of the instructions.  Knocked on two neighbours’ doors for grommet relief.  Borot sat on my porch and showed me what to do.  Now I’m perfectly aligned with the universe.

7.  It was cold.  I drove to Tarandowah.  I walked some fairways.  I moseyed over to the farmer’s field beside the fifth fairway and searched for golf balls.  I found ten.  Yay!

8.  I walked the fescue mounds by the 14th fairway.  I found the highest spot on the course and drank in the 360° view.  Then I sauntered over to a mound behind the 6th tee.  From there I gazed out on eleven holes in the gathering gloom.

8.  Back to the clubhouse at twilight.  Nobody home.  I sat on the patio in the dark and ate the second half of my Subway sub from yesterday.  Cold cuts.  I wanted to donate my balls to the club but I couldn’t find a bucket.  Laid all seventeen on the patio by the front door.  The pro will find them tomorrow morning.

9.  Drove to Costco in  London.  My new sunglasses were ready.  Was thrilled to put them on my nose but they weren’t much good in the dark.

10.  I remembered my favourite Costco meal – $1.50 for a hot dog and drink.  Too fatty.  Ate it anyway.

11.  Drove downtown to the Cuckoo’s Nest Folk Club.  Sat entranced for two hours in the presence of a harpist from Ireland and a guitarist from England.  How they traded melodies back and forth!

12.  At the break between sets, I contemplated having a pint of Delirium Tremens beer (the best I’ve ever tasted).  Decided no … too fatty.  Had the DTs anyway.

***

Now I’m home, tap-tapping on the keys.  You may be liking what I’m writing or maybe not.  It doesn’t matter.  I’m doing stuff.  Stuff I want to do.  Throwing myself into my local universe.  Makes me happy.

Razzed Reunion

I was backing Scarlet out of the garage when my cell phone went off.  It was my old friend Cam.  He’s 68.  We’ve known each other for 52 years.  Cam has always been a jokester.  Actually, so have I.  “Hi Bruce.  I’m at the Belmont Library.”  (BS)  “I passed by the Diner just now.”  (BS)  “I drove around Robin Ridge Drive but I didn’t know how to find you.”  (Supreme BS)

“Cam, you’re in Richmond Hill [near Toronto, 200 kilometres away].”  “No, Bruce.  I’d never lie to you.”  (More of the same)  Back and forth we went, me almost believing he was here in my new village.  “Okay, I’m driving to the library.  I’ll see you in three minutes.”  (He won’t be there.  Sucked in again, Bruce)

Three minutes later, I turned left off Main Street into the library parking lot.  The only car was a souped up jobbie … definitely not Cam.  Darn, he got me one more time.  I whipped out my cell phone and started dialing his number, brow all furrowed.  When through the windshield, what to my wondering eyes should appear but the figure of said Cam Clark.  With a frizzled brain residing in my head, I leapt out of Scarlet and gave my friend a hug.  Gosh, I’m supposed to be the kidder, not the kiddee.

We had a great talk back at my red, blue, yellow, green, teal, purple, reddish brown and cream home.  Just like many, many old times.  I showed him around, including the developed basement.  I was first upstairs again and turned to notice Cam apparently struggling up the steps.  I felt sad.  His life has included tennis prowess, a love for skating and a golf swing almost as erratic as mine.  “Back problems.  No golf.  Still good for cycling, however.”

I’m heading to Toronto on Thursday and hopefully Cam and I will get together on Friday.  I’d love to go for a walk around a tree-shaded lake near his home.  We’ll meander and reminisce and make plans for future adventures.  Fifty-two years is a delightfully long time.

Space

I spent years in the Rockies, hiking the trails above treeline and others deep in forests.  Long views were everywhere.  I had room to move, rather than some of my employment situations, where it felt like I was wearing a large cardboard box over my head.

Lately, my room to roam has been walking the fairways of Tarandowah, the golf course I love.  So sweet to be immersed in that world.  But are there other possibilities in Southern Ontario?

Heading west from Belmont today, I was imagining another golfing journey.  I know my route – south on Belmont Road, east on Yorke Line, cross Dorchester Road, cross Imperial Road, cross Whittaker Road.  But today I found myself turning left on the gravel of Whittaker, just to see what was there.

Well, I knew that further on was Lake Whittaker Conservation Area.  Jody and I had been years ago, but I couldn’t remember what it was like.  Lakeshore trail, I guessed.  Woods, meadows.  As I approached the park gate, I was pretty blasé.  Guess I’ll go for a walk.

But then …

Past some bushes, the lakeshore was revealed, as well as a hundred Canada geese floating serenely.  And their calls echoed above the trees.  I paused.

Then the woods.  Corridors of fir trees, with the late afternoon light slanting through.  I gasped.

Later, waist high grass in the fields, escorted by golden larch trees.  Everything shining.  I simply stopped.

My mind was large
My heart was open
My world was free

Kids Again

Earlier today, I was sitting comfy-like in the Belmont Library, a happy ten minute walk from my condo.  How marvelous that I can walk to all these places – the Belmont Town Restaurant, the Dairystore convenience store, my massage therapist, Jody’s bench at the post office, the Belmont Diner, the gorgeous village park with pond and fountain, and the Barking Cat pub.  Wow!

But today was the library.  I wrote a blog post and was tickled pink to send it into the cyber universe.  As I revelled in my deed, a boy walked in, seeking a book on hold.  I looked at him.  I thought he was young enough to be going to South Dorchester Elementary School, where I’m hoping to volunteer.

Do I leave him alone or ask him the question?  Feeling fairly intrusive, I asked if he went to South Dorchester.  Yes.  “Do you like your school?”  Yes again.  And the conversation evolved.  Just him and me talking level – nothing about adult and child.  He told me there were no men at the school and that he hoped I’ll show up there.  Me too.

The young man communicated beautifully, and my love of conversation with kids flooded back.  He spoke with soul, so wondrous coming from a young person.  One of his comments, however, sounded like a stereotype and I mentioned that.  In response, he didn’t grump – he listened.  So fine.

I’m happy.  I get to be with kids again.  Maybe I can set up a floor hockey league.  Maybe I can help them with their reading and math.  But the content doesn’t matter.  The context does.

Be with