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Restaurant Light

I’m quite partial to Wimpy’s Diner in St. Thomas.  I won’t admit to you how many seniors’ (Who me?) breakfasts I’ve consumed on Talbot St.

I was in London yesterday around supper time and decided to partake of Wimpy’s excellent Greek salad.  I knew the staff in St. Thomas.  Not so for London.  A young woman named Katie was my server.  She was so courteous, even calling me “sir” a few times.  She also arranged for me to receive eight black olives on my salad, virtually a world’s record.  After digesting the olives,romaine lettuce, onions, green peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, feta cheese and Saturday’s edition of The London Free Press, I contemplated dessert.

Bruce to Katie:  Would it be decadent and excessive to have dessert after consuming such a large salad?

Katie to Bruce:  No, not at all.  It would be entirely appropriate (or words of that nature).

Bruce:  What kinds of pie do you have?

Katie:  (Blah, blah, blah), coconut cream, (Blah, blah)

Bruce:  If I had the coconut cream, do you think I’d be alive at the end of it all?

Katie:  Oh yes, I’m sure of it.

(Katie leaves to serve another customer)

(Katie returns)

Bruce:  I’ve decided to show moderation, in that eating pie right now would be seen by many as excessive.  So … I’ll have the coconut cream.

(Katie smiles)

(Katie returns with the biggest piece of pie I’ve had in this lifetime)

Katie:  I thought you deserved it.

(Bruce eating and eating and eating some more … pie mostly gone)

(Katie comes over)

Bruce:  Excuse me, miss.  I have a complaint.  You see that fellow over there in the next booth?  (I had been talking to him and his wife, and I was sure he was willing to play, as I knew Katie was)  He came over here, said that coconut cream looked awfully good, and proceeded to put his face in my pie, devouring almost all of it.  (Man smiles.)

Katie:  Well, that’s it.  The next time you two come into Wimpy’s, I’m seating you at opposite ends of the restaurant.

And so it went.  We all had fun.  Good people.

***

As Katie brought me the handheld machine for my MasterCard, I decided to ask her a question:

“My wife Jody died in November.  I wrote a book about what we experienced during the last year of her life.  I’m giving it away to anyone who’d like to read our story.  Feel free to say no, but would you like a copy?”

(Katie starts crying, and keeps crying for the rest of my visit at Wimpy’s)  “Yes.”

I go out to Hugo to get one of Jody’s books from the trunk.  I open the door of the restaurant.  Three servers – Katie, Robyn and Yasmin – are staring at me.  Katie continues to cry.  “May I have a copy?”  “Of course.”  “Me too?”  “Yes.”  And another trip to Hugo.

It’s all life.  It’s all love.  It’s all who we are.

In The Next Room

Death is nothing at all.  It does not count.  I have only slipped away into the next room.  Nothing has happened.  Everything remains exactly as it was.  I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.  Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.  Call me by the old familiar name.  Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.  Put no difference in your tone.  Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.  Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.  Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.  Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.  Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.  Life means all that it ever meant.  It is the same as it ever was.  There is absolute and unbroken continuity.  What is this death but a negligible accident?  Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?  I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner.  All is well.

Henry Scott Holland (1847-1918)

Kim Brundritt posted this quote on her Facebook page.  She’s the artist who created the sublime painting of a tree that graces the back cover of Jody’s book.  Her dad died two weeks ago.

Jodiette and I talk several times a day and I cry for her a lot.  All the trees out there in the world speak of her.  I’m so sad that I can’t touch her now, and hold her hand.  But we are together.  And Henry Holland helps me hold my darling wife close.  Jody is right next door, separated from my body by the thinnest of veils.  She was right there in Hugo (our Honda CRV) last night as I drove home from Toronto on the freeway.  I was pretty pooped and Jody protected me from harm.  And now, as I sit in my man chair typing, Jodiette has her arms around me.

“Oh, Bruce.  That’s silly,” I heard as I bantered with the waiter in Jack Astor’s yesterday, pretending I was talking to my mom on the phone after he handed me the Interac machine.  The thing is, Jody has seen me do that a hundred times.  She still enjoys it.  I know I’ve often embarrassed Jodiette with my antics, but as she says about any and all hurts I’ve caused, “I forgive you completely.”

“I am but waiting for you, for an interval.”  Yes, my dear.  We’ll hold our arms out wide to each other in reunion.  I love you.

The Concert!

I’ve never looked forward to a concert so much.  I drove to Toronto yesterday to hear Jackie Evancho, a 14-year-old girl with a celestial voice.  During Jody’s funeral luncheon, and at her Celebration of Life, I showed the video of Jackie singing “In The Arms Of An Angel”, which is where Jody is.  And to hear Jackie sing “Nessum Dorma”, an operatic piece usually performed by men, is to be transported into a heavenly realm.  This girl is far more than her voice, though.  She has an astonishing presence on stage.  I think she’s an old soul, reborn on Earth to bring joy and spread love.

I lived in Toronto for the first 21 years of my life.  Yesterday, I had a vague memory of a cheap parking garage near the Sony Centre downtown.  I knew what exit to take off the freeway, and after a few twists and turns, there was the garage.  Plus it was only $5.00 to park for hours and hours.  Yay!

An hour-and-a-half before showtime.  I thought a beer would be in order.  Right outside the garage, on a street called The Esplanade, sat an Irish pub.  Inside was dark wood, a seat at the bar, large screen TV sports, and a Barking Squirrel lager.  Oh, bliss is mine!  I talked to two of the servers, and they were both genuinely happy that I was about to hear one of the most beautiful voices in the world.  My soul was flying high, not to mention the rest of me with the beer.

7:15.  The show would start at 8:00 so it was time to mosey.  As I was walking out of the pub, one of my new friends smiled and said, “Enjoy the concert.”  Indeed.  It was only two blocks to the Sony Centre and my cells were singing.  As I rounded the corner, I wondered if the doors would be open yet.  Then I saw a fellow going inside.  Good.  I’ll just hang out in my seat (only ten rows from the stage!) and drink in the theatre.

Off the sidewalk now and approaching all those glass doors.  A corner of my mind noticed five 8 1/2 x 11 sheets of paper on the windows, but who cares?  Hand reaching for the door.  Eyes lifting to check out the sign.

JACKIE EVANCHO
IS CANCELLED

(Standing still)  (Staring)  (Gulping)

Small Bodies, Large Souls

It’s time to let the kids do the talking.

There’s a Grade 5/6 class at St. Jude’s School in London who have done a lot of praying for Jody and me.  They sent love to two people they’d never met.  They also sent me a book – The Fall of Freddie the Leaf – along with messages of caring.  So lovely.  I visited the students yesterday and told them how special their love is.  Of course they love their moms, dads, brothers and sisters, and their friends, but to reach beyond, out into the world with their sweetness … oh my.  What the world needs now …

Here’s what they had to say:

I know the loss of your wife Jody has planted sadness into your life.  Don’t let that stop you from being who you are.

Life is like a spirograph.  Once one line ends another starts.

Just remember that Jody in a good place and will always remember you.

Get well soon from your loss.

I know its hard to lose someone close.  Jody was probably a really sweet person.

Keep going and keep your wife in your prayers forever and keep her in your heart with all your strenght and your love.

You need to be strong and not to have a heavy heart, because Jody loved you and even though she died, she is actually living everlasting life with you, right by your side.  So don’t just sit there and weep.  Sit by Jody’s tree and fell her spirit in you.

I have a good song to sing that might cheer you up.  It is the song Happy.  So keep that in mind and you will hopefully feel better.  She was probably a very special lady to you.

I hope thease leaves cheer you up.  Hopfully you can recover from this.

Jody is in a better place now.

Mr. Kerr I am so sad to hear of the loss of your wife Jody and hope that she goes to heaven.

Daniel always helped Freddie through rough times just like you helped Jody through her tough times.

Jody may be gone but you still have your special memories just like the special tree you and your wife share.

One day my moms couisim had cancer.  She had it for a year.  That year pasted by and now she is still alive.

You must struggle but I will always keep you and Jody in my prayers.

Mr. Kerr, we hope you feel better and you always know that she is in your heart.

I know how you feel.  Papa died from cancer.  He is very nice when I see his grave and my grandma.  It reminds me of him.

Bruce, we will keep you in our thoughts and prayers.

I had experienced a horrible, sad story too.  She was a little girl who’s name was Adison.  She was a very close friend of mine and she passed away from a car crash at Costco.

I am very sorry for your loss but we all die when it is our time.

Well I hope this letter cheered you up a bit and that soon all their leaf letters will too.

I hope you can overcome your loss just like me and my family did.  I know it’s hard not to think about your wife, but just think of all the things that you can still do.  Good luck!

(Crying)

Thank you, kids

Intensity

I’d say that my enjoyment of classical music has been on-and-off in my life.  I played cello from Grade 6 till Grade 13, hearing the pieces from the inside of the orchestra.  Then, sadly, I let go of my instrument.  Except for a few dabbles, I haven’t played again.

Years ago, I bought a 10-CD set called “The Most Beautiful Melodies of Classical Music”.  Such marvelous tunes, but truth be told I haven’t listened to them very often.  They sit on a high shelf, ignored.

In the early 2000’s, I went to a couple of Orchestra London concerts, watching the musicians from the balcony.  I don’t remember the pieces but it was good music.

Then a couple of weeks ago, I sat in the second row of Dundas Street Centre United Church to hear The Musicians of Orchestra London, folks who are determined to play on after the city dropped its funding.  Great sights and sounds from my nearby perch.

None of all that, however, prepared me for last night.  It was another concert from The Musicians, this time in the dramatic confines of Metropolitan United Church.  The centre part of the front row was blocked off, but I was allowed to sit up front on the left side of the orchestra.  I had been leaning back and talking to two women behind me when the musicians walked in.

A female violinist sat down about four feet from me, facing to my right.  When she did a downbow, I could have touched her right elbow.  The orchestra began with the Overture from the opera Don Giovanni by Mozart.  From the first note, my new friend launched herself into the stratosphere, moving and grooving to the music as her fingers flew on the fingerboard.  And her notes were so pure.  The melodies exploded in my head as I watched her grab on to them, then caress, then propel once again.  I tried to take my eyes off of her but usually couldn’t.  She was a goddess of the violin and I was transported into her world.  I had never been so close to a professional musician and I was overwhelmed with the power of it all.

As intermission started, I leaned forward and said, “Thank you.  That was lovely.  I loved watching your fingers fly.”  She smiled.  And then I continued:  “Am I sitting too close?”  She laughed.  “Oh no.  In fact you can sit up here if you want”, pointing to the very front pew beside her.  Wouldn’t that have been a hoot?  I’d be dodging her elbow all night.

Words cannot express the depth of my evening.  May I bring such intensity to the moments of my life.

To Express

Sometimes I think about how much time I spend just sitting in my body, nice and quiet, not doing anything, and how much time I spend putting energy out into the world, reaching towards people, expressing something of value in their direction.  I like both.

Yesterday, I wanted to sit in London’s Victoria Park before going to a movie.  I also wanted ice cream.  The Marble Slab Creamery is the most decadent place.  I ordered up a waffle cone full of sweet cream (not vanilla), Smarties (a good old Canadian chocolate yummy), Crispy Crunch (more chocolaty goodness) and peanut bits.  And onto a park bench I plunked.  No reaching out, just putting in.  Upon completion of consumption, I wandered over to the bandshell, where about 30 women in long gingham dresses were lined up, in front of young men in white shirts.  Nothing was happening. They were just standing there, with a man in a black suit facing them.

The conductor then raised his arms.  The choir raised their hymn books and a lovely sound came forth.  Expression.  These folks were Mennonites and favoured the audience with several hymns, including “Amazing Grace”, a favourite of mine.  None of the men and women smiled but the tones were pure.  Their expression reached me.  And I was glad to hear them.

Afterwards a young Mennonite fellow approached and invited me to come out to his church.  We talked, sending a gentle energy to each other.  I wanted to keep the dialogue going even though our spiritual perspectives differed.  To express with love is a blessing.

Back at home, I thought of the many kind expressions that we human beings give each other: smiling, dancing, speaking, holding hands, hugging, laughing …  So many.  I thought back to my teaching days, and the type of child that I worried about.  It wasn’t the rough-around-the-edges kid who might yell and swear.  It was the boy or girl who wouldn’t say boo, who wouldn’t show me anything of the Spirit inside.  I hope they’ve all found their way and are reaching out to their fellow beings every day.  The world needs them.  The world needs us all.

The Lives Within The Lamp

I wake up each morning, lean to the right, and pull the two cords to turn on my stained glass table lamp.  My friend has a semi-circular shade and a dark grey metal base.  It looks like a tree, with the most exquisite branches – little panels of coloured glass, ranging from a vibrant red to dark brown to a lighter brown, to cream, and then white at the tip.  I like trees.  I like light.

A few days ago, I pulled the metal cords and just sat there.  I watched the little globes at the ends of the cords moving back and forth.  And then it came to me … What if those two balls were really two lives, doing what humans do – loving, working, eating, laughing …?

One ball was moving slower than the other one.  I watched its speed gradually lessen.  And I thought about Jody, being at home for the last seven months of her life.  Slowly winding down.  I kept watching.  And I guessed what the time had been when I pulled the cords – 8:31.  As the swings became shorter, the movements more subtle, I cried for my wife.  Soon the vibrations were really minute.  I wanted to see the moment when the globe became still but it was taking so much effort to focus on it.  Jody was dying.  At 8:43, she stopped.

The other ball was winding down.  It was me.  I watched myself dying.  Would I be reunited with my beloved wife?  Yes I would.  When will I die?  Tomorrow?  When I’m 75?  Thirty years from now?  At 8:53, I stopped.  Jody was still.  I was still.  We were hanging there, seemingly separated by the trunk of the tree.  We couldn’t see each other.  But we could feel each other.  After all, we’re both part of a spreading maple giant.  “I am here, Bruce.”

Jake’s Women – Part 2

Three weeks ago, I was in the front row of the Pinnacle Playhouse in Belleville, watching excellent actors perform the play Jake’s Women.  Last night – same play, more excellent actors, front row at The Arts Project in London.  The same smile on my face.  The same standing ovation.

I loved the different interpretations of the two directors, and of the 16 actors (8 x 2).  But something astounding happened last night … tears throughout the auditorium, and almost tears on the stage.  The scene was between mother and daughter, a reunion of types.  An imaginary conversation that was dreamed up by Jake, a writer.  Julie was Jake’s first wife.  She was killed in a car accident at age 35.  When she was 25, she gave birth to their daughter Molly.  The conversation I witnessed was with Molly at 21 and Julie at 35.  It never happened in real life.  It never could.

Imagine Julie standing back in the shadows in Jake’s living room.  In comes Molly.  Jake to Molly: “There’s somebody here.”  Molly and Julie’s eyes meet.  Julie: “Hello, Molly.”  Molly is frightened and confused, and then … “It’s all right.  Now I understand.  Hello, Mom.”  Supreme communion from eyes to eyes.  Choked voices.  Reddened faces.  We the audience get it.  There is no longer a play.  That is my wife on the stage, and my daughter, and I cry.  What a privilege it must be to create love in the theatre, and to have every person in the room feel it.  That’s what happened last night.  Thank God I was there.

Glowing

I just spent the last five hours in the presence of four lovely people – two women, one girl and one man.  We sat in the kitchen for awhile, and later went downstairs, where one of the women was having her hair cut and styled by the other one.

I don’t want to name names.  I don’t want to share the issues that folks brought up.  I don’t want to quote anyone.  What I’d love to do is touch upon the space of love that we all created.  And, really, I don’t know what to say.  (So just type, Bruce.  See what emerges.)

Reverence.  That’s what wound itself through all our words.  Reverence for humanity, for our struggles, our pains, our beauty.  Lots of stories told, none of which were intended to demean anyone.  The stories lifted us up, shining a light on our tenderness.  We shared grief.  We shared sadness and the loss of relationships.  We shared the serendipity of us coming together tonight.

The fellow and I had been out for lunch.  When we got back to his house, I didn’t know whether he’d invite me in.  He did.  I had intended to have lunch with him yesterday, but complications led me to suggest today.  The woman having her hair done intended to come yesterday.  Somehow that got changed to today.  As the client pulled into the driveway, she saw the back of my head as I sat in a window seat in the kitchen.  It reminded her of me.  It was me.  I had never been in this house until today.

Some of our talk was serious.  Some of it was silly.  All of it was so very human.  One of us was 66.  Another was 15.  And the other three filled in between.  Age didn’t matter.  Male-female was irrelevant.  One person spoke rapidly.  Another slowly and quietly.  We laughed.  We pondered.  We came close to tears.  We prayed.

Pretty astonishing, actually.  No small talk.  Lots of big talk.  Human beings.

Knee Jerks

I’d like to be spacious of mind, always.  Letting the big picture envelop me.  Alas, sometimes I just react.  Like this morning.  I love the sports section, especially tiny columns of statistics.  And I hate typos.  I was breezing through the “Scoreboard” page of The London Free Press, not really noticing much, when my eyes settled on the word “Atalanta”.

“Not another one.  What’s wrong with this paper?  It’s like there’re mistakes on every page.  Good grief.  It’s “Atlanta” (Georgia).  Can’t be that hard to get it right!”  (Bruce huffing and puffing)  Slowing down my brain a mite, I saw that Atalanta was in the soccer column.  Italian soccer.  Atalanta beat Palermo 3-2.  Head lowered, I clicked to Wikipedia, where I discovered that “Atalanta Bergamasca Calcio, commonly known as just Atalanta … is an Italian football club based in Bergamo, Lombardy.”  Oops.  Jerking yes.  Spacious no.

I remember a time when I was driving to Tillsonburg, Ontario, to visit a low vision student.  Pretty fields and woodlots to the left and right.  Peaceful.  Except for that big truck ahead of me that was only going the speed limit.  “C’mon, c’mon … I’ve got places to go, people to meet.”  Mile after mile, the driver creeped along on the straight road.  Being a guy who was in love with his own vocabulary, I constructed a complex backstory about the human behind the wheel.  Eventually, there was a curve in the road.  An Austin Mini was leading the way.  Oops.  Jerking at the wrong person, yes.  Spacious?  Not a chance.

I wonder if I’m older and wiser now.  Based on this morning’s sporting news, perhaps I’m just older.