Author Archives: Bruce

Saying Goodbye To Stuff

Yesterday Jeff and Rick from Shackelton Auctioneering came by to pick up items for their spring lawn/gardening sale.  It was the first step in getting rid of things that Jody and I shared for years but that I don’t want at my condo.  I thought the process would be sweatless.

Nope.

Even though they were just “things”, some of the objects held the love that Jody and I still share.  A round patio table inlaid with dark shiny squares accompanied by matching wicker chairs.  Jody and I sat there in a little alcove at the front of our home, enjoying a lemonade.  Just chatting.  A large rectangular table with ceramic squares on the deck out back … the site of many summer meals.  Two comfy loungers where we’d sit beside each other, reading our books and listening to the birds.  All vehicles for togetherness.  Goodbye vehicles.  The magic that you hold will stay in my heart, alongside my lovely wife Jodiette.

Then there was the Roper lawn tractor that breezed over the grass for many a year.  How marvelous to change the world from scruffiness to parkland in an hour.  And our snowblower.  I felt so accomplished in transforming impassible to a clear path for Hugo and Scarlet.

Later in the day, I struggled with weights in my strength training at Wellington Fitness.  Odd, I thought.  I didn’t have trouble with this amount of weight a few days ago.  Then I realized … not odd at all.  The emotional and the spiritual morph into the physical.  Such a journey we’re all on, of gain and loss.  May I embrace them both because both is what I will continue to receive.

Old chapter, new chapter.  Nice book.

A Golfing Life

Okay, so I’m addicted to the game and to the beauty that is the Tarandowah Golfers Club.  And I see analogies to life as I set off with my clubs.  Eighteen holes.  A journey from infancy to old age.  Hmm.  I wonder what hole I’m on now.  How about 14?  I’ll take that. I just don’t want to be on the 18th green, facing a three-foot putt.  But none of us know when the final hole-out will come.  I best enjoy my walk on the pretty green lands.

Let’s contemplate the sweet spot.  If I hit the ball on the central area of my clubhead, it’s effortless and high and long.  Some of my moments in life are like that.  I don’t do anything … wonders just decide to surround me.  Maybe a smile, a flower, or writing this blog.  And then there are the times when my golf ball hits the shaft of the club and zooms into the rough way to my right.  Or a toe hit.  Either one feels yucky, like hitting a stone.  Away from the course, I might say the wrong thing or stumble on the sidewalk.  Perhaps I can’t remember what I went down to the basement for.  Or how about constipation?  No sweet spot there.

I’ve never broken 100 at Tarandowah.  I’ve created a personal par of two over par for each hole.  That would give me a score of 106.  Two days ago,  I finished the front nine with 49, four under my par.  Oh bliss!  I saw future golfing glory spread before me on the back nine.  Then I “birdied” the 10th … five under par.  What a good boy am I.  On the 11th, a long par four, I hit a fine drive that unfortunately wandered right, slipping into a bunker.  No sweat.  Just a little sand shot to get back onto the fairway.  All this is sort of like a perfect day at work – crossing off items from my “to do” list, saying wise things in meetings, having people smile and nod approval.  And then …

It took me six shots to get out of that trap.  My final score on the 11th was 16.  Felt like a layoff notice.

Whether heroic or devastating, the journey continues to the 18th green.  Miles from performance issues, I simply walk the fairway.  And I will continue to do so until my ball drops into that final hole.

A Beating Heart

I’m thrilled that the lot where my new home will stand backs onto a farmer’s field.  It’ll be corn this year and beans the next.  Beyond the field, the land slopes up so my horizon is dotted with farm homes and silos.    Oh my.  I love long views and come September I’ll have one.

As an expression of obsession, I showed up yesterday after sunset.  The sky was still pink to the west and the spread of clouds above me covered the world.  I was in big sky country.  Dots of farmstead lights comforted me … my neighbours were home, enjoying their cozy living rooms and kitchens.

But what’s that?  A flashing dot of red way to the north.  I contracted.  It was the same reaction as I have seeing flashing Christmas lights on a house – no!  It brought up pictures of industry, stores and a frantic pace.  That’s not what I want.  But it’s what I will have.

I watched my body and my feelings fall on the negative side.  “Just be with it, Bruce.”  And I did.  The beat was slow, maybe 40 a minute.  As I gazed northward for awhile, there came a shift in energy, just a bit at first but then a stream and then a flood.  The light was love.  It was a heart.  It was Jody.  It was all the folks that I hold dear.  I kept looking.  The speed of the city intruded a bit but then gradually faded into the rhythm of life.

As I explored the perimeter of my lot in the darkness, I discovered that at certain points trees hid the telecommunication tower.  No red.  Disappointment … glee … disappointment.  So in the fall I’ll be able to embrace the heart or let it step aside.  To see a symbol of civilization or to feel the farms.  Life will rush towards me either way.

Condo … Part Two

 

I walked into the Belmont Diner and sat down, ready for poached eggs, bacon, home fries, brown toast … and peanut butter.  When Chrystal saw me, she came right over.  “I was wrong.  Glenn’s condos aren’t on Manning Drive.  They’re on the northeast corner of town, by the water tower.”  Okay then.   Once I finish slurping my coffee, I’ll head out there to get the lay of the land.  Shortly thereafter, the door opens and in walks a guy.  He sits beside me at the horseshoe lunch counter.  Chrystal makes an appearance once more.  “This is Glenn.  And Glenn, this is the guy I told you about.”  Serendipity!

We gabbed and chewed a bit and then he suggested I come over to see the model home.  Fifteen minutes later I was at his doorstep.  We talked and walked for an hour-and-a-half.  From the map of the development, it looked like there was a lot available backing onto the farmer’s field to the north … a long view.  Something I treasure.

There was a cheque in my pocket earmarked for Wellington Manor, the big condo building in St. Thomas.  I whipped it out and re-earmarked it to Glenn.  There.  Deposit delivered.  Home reserved.  Bruce happy.  Should I have done more research, more thinking?  Naw.  Lot 4 at 12 Robin Ridge Drive was calling my name.  Strike while the iron is hot and all that.

In the week between then and now, I’ve met lots of my fellow condoers, mostly by walking around and saying hi.  I even knocked on my next door neighbour’s door to welcome her to my world.  Sharon very kindly showed me all through her home.  Oh my goodness.  In four months I’ll be in a very similar sanctuary, with Bruceness inserted into every nook and cranny.

Glenn and I have pored over the plans and come to an agreement about the design.  And yesterday I went to Patene’s to pick out brick and shingles.  Among the brick colours available for Glenn’s condos was a warm orangish-brown variety, with some of the bricks having a touch of grey or white.  Beautiful.  I asked for the addresses of homes that were built using this colour and found out that only three homes in the entire London region qualified.  “Weird,” I thought.  There were 50 or 60 homes constructed with my second favourite brick – a reddish brown hue.

Oh well, I guess my tastes are different from the vast majority.  I drove off to London to view my colour.  Google had given me directions and the target structure was number 2088 on a curving street.  As the road moved leftward, I checked out the numbers … 2044, 2048, 2052.  And then what to my wondering eyes should appear but a two-storey home decked out in the most lovely orangish-brown brick.  I pulled Scarlet to a halt, got out and leaned against my car.  I just stared.  The brick sang to me.  It was so beautiful.  So warm, so homey, so me.

Tomorrow the journey continues.

Condo … Part One

Here I sit in my big home, surrounded by nearly an acre of grass.  This is where Jody and I thrived and suffered, and thrived some more.  My dear wife is everywhere here, cheering me on.  I’m looking over to the couch where we cuddled for many a movie.  And there’s the kitchen, where Jodiette created brilliant meals.  (Sigh)

What’s true is that I don’t want to live here anymore.  The energy within is loving.  It’s also of the past.  I need a new start.  Part of my bursting forth is becoming a member at the Tarandowah Golfers Club near Avon, Ontario.  I love the beauty there.  Saw a red fox a couple of days ago.  But Tarandowah is a 40 minute drive from Union.  Can’t I live somewhere closer?

Two weeks ago, I discovered the aura of Belmont, a town of maybe 2000 west of the golf course.  I was trying to create the perfect golfing day, and unearthed a breakfast spot (The Belmont Diner), a place to read (The Belmont Library) and a pub (The Barking Cat).  Cool.  But now that I had set up my perfect day, where would I hang my hat?  (Actually I don’t wear one.)

On Friday, April 29, I asked Chrystal, the owner of the Diner, if there were any condos in Belmont.  I was guessing there weren’t.  “I think that one of my customers is building some out on Manning Drive.  Go check it out.”  So I moseyed over to the northwest edge of town and found lovely new single family dwellings … but no condos.  Oh well, I guess Chrystal was wrong.

A few days before, I stood in the presentation centre of a future condo building in St. Thomas, a city of 35000 just north of Union (about 30 minutes from Tarandowah).  I liked the layout of a small unit and over time decided to put down a deposit of $5000.  I didn’t really enjoy the area of town, but it was a condo, and I didn’t want any more yard work.

On Saturday, April 30, I left home with a cheque in my pocket.  I remembered that Chrystal had said she’d talk to Glenn, the builder, about me being interested in a condo.  Oh, what the heck, why not drive out to Belmont for breakfast first, and then go back to St. Thomas for the deposit?  Couldn’t hurt.

It didn’t.

 

Home With The Kids

I went to a musical last week at the Palace Theatre in London. The stars were all 13- or 14-years-old.  For six years I taught at St. Mary Choir School and these kids were in Grade 5 during my last year there.  Now they’re in Grade 8, ready to graduate.

What I witnessed was the wonder of The Lion King Junior.  As the show opened, a shaman walked onto the stage, dressed in flaming red, adorned with fierce makeup, and holding a walking stick.  She sang “The Circle Of Life” with a deeply vibrant voice and amazing stage presence.  Fourteen became ageless.

I watched Simba and Mufasa and Zazu and all their friends.  I heard “Hakuna Matata” and “Can You Feel The Love Tonight?”.  All with my mouth slightly ajar.  How music and soul can reach us.

My best moments of the evening were not about what was happening on the stage.  In front of me sat a dad and his young daughter.  She found his lap more comfy than her seat.  There they sat, with the love between them so obvious.  At one point, she reached her arms back and clasped her hands at the back of his neck.  Truly lovely.

Before the show, I talked to one of my favourite students from my St. Mary’s days.  I’ll call her Holly.  She’s in Grade 10 now.  Such a glowing spirit from back then … and still.  Holly is looking at law as a career.  I told her that she speaks so well, and that it would be a good fit for her.  Actually, it didn’t matter what we talked about.  Our love for each other was in the air.

After the show, another former student, now in Grade 9, hugged me.  She’ll be Amanda in this story.  When she was in Grade 5, she gave me the DVD Elf as a Christmas present.  Such a cool thing to do.  Our few minutes of talking were timeless.  Caring for each other doesn’t stop just because we’re not in the same setting anymore.

All these wonders make me want to have kids but I guess that’ll have to wait for my next lifetime.  For the time being, I’ll revel in the moments.

Tightrope

I haven’t felt like writing for several days, and so I didn’t write.  To just let that be is difficult for me.  What if in the next year I only blog once a week?  I struggle not to label that as “bad”.

In my worst moments, I visualize having nothing to say for the rest of my life.  But I know me … that simply is not true.  Something out in the world will get my attention and then I’ll find a way to relate it to my life.  So there.

***

I was driving in St. Thomas yesterday when I noticed a little black object way up high straight ahead of me.  A squirrel was scampering along the power line that stretched across the road.  Then he stopped, apparently eating something.  In a flash I was under him and gone, but he has stayed with me.

Mr. Squirrel was so calm up there.  Just dipsydoodling his way above the madding crowd.  I imagined myself on a rope, suspended above the gorge near Niagara Falls, holding on to my long pole for dear life.  Absolute terror!  Now it’s true that I don’t have the skill, and that I could possibly develop it, but to perform such a feat with my new friend’s ease?  Impossible.

What if I could hum my way through some activity that many people would find hugely difficult?  Do I do anything like that?  Well … now that you mention it … I’m writing this blog post.  Some folks, in contemplating the creation of words that will later fly off into cyberspace, would feel the same terror.  And although I’ve been in a scribing lull lately, when I do sit down with my laptop, I trust that I’ll have something to say, that the words will come.  Such as right now.  This paragraph is over.  I don’t know what the next one will be about.  And that’s okay.

“Celebrate, Bruce, that you can write with ease.  It’s all right if the quality is not so good on a certain day.  There’ll be plenty of really good posts.  Just let those fingers do the walking.”  And so I will.

Watching The Land

I drove from London towards Tarandowah this afternoon.  I was out in the country, on Scotland Drive.  And I looked around.

Lots of rolling farm fields interspersed with woodlots.  I love the curves of the land … no sharp angles or straight lines.  They mirror the flow I often feel inside me.  And there’s a sentinel tree on top of a rise, its bare branches reaching out in a gesture of grace.  Lovely.

But what’s this?  There’s a line of towers up ahead, crossing the road at right angles.  I know we need electricity but the huge man-made structures intrude in my head.  I thank the unknown powers that the towers aren’t paralleling Scotland Drive, accompanying me all the way.  Crossing their path, however, is okay.  I’m happy to wish them goodbye.

Here comes an old barn with its grey vertical boards.  Half of it has fallen down in a heap of wood.  And that too is okay.  I welcome the old and passing.  So impermanent, this life.

And then there’s a field, jam packed with solar panels, facing away from me.  My stomach turns.  It’s such a mass of flat angled surfaces.  The next field too.  How strange my mind wanders.  Solar energy is such a boon for mankind but I can’t get beyond my distaste for rectangles.  It reminds me of a subdivision in Calgary, Alberta – cookie cutter homes only a few feet from each other.

As Scotland climbs its last kilometre towards its T intersection with Belmont Road, I see living beings on the horizon … silhouettes of cows and horses.  I like that too.  Seems that I’m an old fashioned type of guy.

Creating A Day

 

Now that I’m firmly in place at the Tarandowah Golfers Club near Avon, Ontario, it’s time to compose a journey.  In my brain, I know that each day is one but I want that perception to become a deeper reality.  Centered on my days spent walking the fairways, I want to create a series of experiences that I can repeat many times.  Sort of an heroic quest … for breakfast … for sitting in a comfy chair, blogging or reading … for an evening meal and brew.

So I ventured forth this morning towards golfing heaven.  Where will breakie reside?  Avon doesn’t have any restaurants but the town of Belmont is nearby.  On a previous trip, I ‘d seen a sign for the Belmont Diner.  Just to be sure, I googled “Belmont restaurants” but no diner materialized.  Maybe the place is closed.  I remembered that there was a supermarket in the same building so I phoned there, and found out that the diner was alive and well and open till 2:00 each day.

I pulled into the parking lot and opened the door to a gaggle of conversation.  Six guys at one table, about twelve women at another.  Ahh … my kind of place.  I sat at the lunch counter and was greeted by a smiling waitress.  Later, she was there in a jiffy to refill my coffee when she saw the severe angle of my cup.  “It’s not my first day on the job, nor will it be my last.”  As I chowed down on my bacon and eggs, a conversation unfolded with a woman nearby, focused on our mutual love for Stephen King.  Very cool.

Next on my menu was that comfy chair.  I had discovered that Belmont has a library and that it was open today at 1:00.  And here I sit, tapping away.  Maria welcomed me and set me up with a library card.  Free Internet plus a space for me to enjoy Stephen or perhaps a book about the spiritual side of golf.  Oh … life is good.  It’s so quiet in here.  Just a customer or two.  And there’s a big old clock on the wall which reminds me of my grandpa’s farmhouse way back when.  Maria and I have chatted some about Belmont.  She’s even told me there’s a pub in town – The Barking Cat.  Hard to get my head around that name but sounds worth checking out.

I’m just about done here.  Even though it’s raining, I’m heading to Tarandowah.  Brought my umbrella.  I just might stroll the first fairway, with a song on my lips.

 

Discipline … And Letting Go

Now that I’m home, I’m going to take on a project that will require all my dedication.  Will I address world hunger or perhaps contribute to an elevated consciousness in Canada?

No

I’m becoming a better golfer.  There … no grand plan for touching the world, just me touching the land.  Hitting balls with a prayer that they’ll hang in the sky.  Wait a  minute – that sounds a bit spiritual to me.

I’ve become a member at Tarandowah Golfers Club near Avon, Ontario.  My plan is to go there most days and hit shots on the driving range until I get consistent enough to play the course with other members.  Tarandowah is a very difficult course which matches my golf game nicely.  But I’ll get there, supported by the lessons I’m taking from Derek Highley in London.

I was on the range yesterday.  Such a meditation.  I hit 200 balls, trying to “sweep the grass” and have the low point of my swing an inch or two in front of the ball.  I’ve never really practiced before so no wonder that I’ve never broken 120 at Tarandowah.

Consistently hitting the ball on the sweet spot of the clubface is one key to happy golf.  But consistency hasn’t exactly been my middle name.  And so what?  I begin.  Most of my shots were hit off the heel or toe of the club and squibbled unimpressively down the fairway.  My low point ranged from two inches in front to three inches behind, with corresponding tears in the earth.  Sometimes life felt effortless and the ball climbed in the air.  Mostly, though, it was like hitting a stone.

Again I say, so what?  I’m on the road to the sweet spots of life.  And I realize it’s possible to feel that sweetness even during the most wayward shot.  I’m on the grass, doing something I love.  I’m fully capable of letting performance thoughts go and revelling in the happiness of being at Tarandowah.  I met some fine people out there yesterday and that’s the realest joy of any activity for me.  Sooner than I’m expecting, I’ll be walking down the fairways beside them.