Category Archives: Uncategorized

Books Into Hands

Jody’s books arrived 19 days ago but it took me awhile to figure out that I could go to the various schools I’ve taught at over the years to see who would like a copy.  As an itinerant teacher, I’ve visited low vision students in about 45 schools.  So far, I’ve been to 8 of them.

I sure don’t want to press people to take a book.  “Feel free to say no.”  What I’ve found, though, is that a lot of folks don’t want to be given a copy that could have gone to someone who might be closer to me than them.  So they don’t ask.  Most often I ask, they smile, and Jody’s story ends up in their hands.  That makes me happy.  I want our journey to reach people.  I don’t want money.  I’m hoping that the love which Jodiette and I share moves people to look a little more closely at their dear ones, to see the beauty in the person across the dinner table, to move beyond the busyness of life to the immediacy of the moment.

I went to three schools today.  Two recipients of our love story cried.  A few Grade 6 kids asked if they could have a copy.  We arranged for their teacher to read Jody’s book first, and if she thinks it’s appropriate, a child’s parents could contact me and ask for a book.  A friend mentioned that’s she’s taught her kids about the impermanence of life, and how we need to treasure each other while we have each other.  One woman has been through hell with relationships and physical issues and was so pleased that I included her.  I got lots of hugs.

The love received is very beautiful and I am blessed to have it come my way.  Still, what I want most of all is to have the love burst out of the pages into people’s hearts, and from there into the hearts of those they hold close.  What happiness to imagine Jody’s love, and mine, and her humour and courage, flowing across the globe.  That may or may not happen on the physical level, but in the realm of Spirit …  it’s all over the world.  Thank you, my lovely wife.

Renato and Me

I’m going to be doing a lot of travelling over the next year-and-a-half, and I’ve wanted to find someone to live in my house while I’m gone.  (Hmm.  I just noticed that I’m okay with calling it “my” house.  Oh, Jody.  It’s still our house, my dear.)

Renato is my man.  He’s an Italian chef who’s been living with his family in England for many years.  And he wants to come to Canada and open an authentic Italian restaurant in London.

This afternoon we sat in my family room and on the deck for three hours, talking about life.  Renato has an accent and I often didn’t get every word in his sentences.  It didn’t matter.  The soul of the man shone through.  In the military, he was a parachutist, and often jumped out of planes with a bazooka-type gun strapped to his side.  Then there were the times that he and his mates shoved jeeps out of the plane, jumped after them, and then drove away minutes later.  Renato fought in the war against terrorism in England and told me of being face-to-face with a man who had murdered many people.  I was terrified just listening to him.

Renato has been a skilled photographer and cinematographer and now he’s an elite chef.  He described being continually harassed by a pizza chef when he was a young employee, and how years later he bought the restaurant, and hired that pizza guy when he was down on his luck.  Forgiveness and reconciliation.

My new friend has had an exciting life.  And so have I.  He’s touched a lot of people.  Me too.  No better or worse in our discussion.

In July, Renato moves in.  Shortly thereafter, I head to Western Canada on a six-week road trip.  Then it’s home for a week before driving to Massachusetts for an 84-day meditation retreat.  Next, six months at home, followed by ten weeks of riding my bicycle across Canada.  After which I’m home for six weeks.  After which I’m back in Massachusetts for three more months of silence.  On January 20, 2017, I’m home again, most likely to stay.

Renato will care for my precious home, hopefully for all of this time.  I already trust him.  He’s a good guy.  And I’m a fortunate fellow.

Visiting Kym

I was looking forward to yesterday.  It was time to drive west for two hours along the north shore of Lake Erie.  Kingsville is the home of Kym Brundritt, an exquisitely gifted artist.  Months ago, Kym had given me permission to have her painting “Cosmic Tree” grace the back cover of Jody’s book.  It was so kind of her.  I drove with a copy of the book nearby.  I knew that I wanted to meet Kym and give her the book face-to-face.

I found Kym’s art shop – Paisley Dreamer – parked my car and started down the sidewalk.  A woman turned towards me and said, “Are you Bruce?”  I certainly was.  “Kym’s father has just died.”  Maybe an hour before I pulled in.  The woman was Kym’s mom.  We hugged.  Such overwhelming sadness.

I decide to give Pam the copy of Jody’s book and then head back.  But she said, “Would you come to the house?  I think Kym wants to meet you.”  I didn’t want to intrude on the family’s grief, but the answer was natural … “Yes, I will.”

I followed Pam’s car and parked behind her.  A woman crossed the street and talked to her through the driver’s open window.  I recognized Kym from her photograph.  She was walking towards me as I opened the door.  She was crying.  We hugged.  I don’t remember if we said anything to each other before we touched.

We talked a bit – I don’t know what about.  I gave her Jody’s book.  Then Kym asked me to come inside for a drink of water.  We sat and talked.  Two old friends who had never met.  She mentioned that our timing was surreal.  As the funeral folks knocked on the door, I said that I should go.  “No” was her response.  “Stay.  You’re family.”  Oh my God.  How beautiful.

Kym and I decided that we’d go for lunch someday in Kingsville.  Whether that will be weeks or months away, I’ll be there.  Hugging people I’ve never met.  Isn’t that lovely, Jodiette?  “Yes, husband.  It sure is.”

Ha! Ha! Ha!

That’s the sound of me laughing at myself.  I’m so not good at mechanical things, electrical things … lots of things.

Exhibit A: lawn tractor and air compressor

It was time to cut the lawn for the first time this season.  I’ve fantasized about my dear neighbours working on placards in their basements, with nifty slogans such as “Move your ass on the grass” and “Kerr forest growing daily”.  So I started the lawn tractor in our backyard shed and drove it past the house to our driveway.  At which point the front right tire came off its rim.

The tire was looking squished under the weight of the tractor so I took the jack out of Scarlet, our Toyota Corolla, and got the tire into the air.  There!  See, I’m mechanical.

Jody and I bought an air compressor a few years ago and happily I remembered where I had stored it.  Not so happily, the machine’s manual has flown the coop.  Jody was really organized and had alphabetical files for each of our outdoor apparatuses.  (Is that a word?)  But “compressor” or “air” were nowhere to be found.  Oh, Bruce, where did you leave that thing?  And then … “Ha! Ha! Ha!”  It’s so comforting to laugh at my foibles.  Too bad it’s taken me six decades to get to this point.  Oh well.  Perhaps an averagely handy guy would know how to operate the compressor, but that’s not me.  I was especially put off by the warning labels: danger this and danger that.  I phoned the 1-800 number for Rona – the store where we’d bought the beast.  “We don’t have manuals.  But your compressor was made by Black and Decker.  Try them.”  I did but nobody was at home at 6:05 pm.  Mañana.

I now sit reflecting on my lack of male skills, smiling as I do so.  I have many good qualities.  They just don’t happen to include household maintenance.

Exhibit B: TV audio

Jody and I had owned an XM radio for years, and sometimes listened to it in Hugo (our Honda CRV).  But not much recently.  So a month ago I cancelled the subscription and had an audio store remove the hardware.  Just before I went to Belleville, I decided to get the family room in order, so I got rid of the XM radio docking station that was connected to our TV and sound system.  Simple really … all you have to do is pull some cables out and voilà – no XM.  Also no sound from the TV, Playstation 3 or sound system.  (Sigh)  I looked at the ports – audio in, audio out, serial data, IR emitter …  Gosh.  What came from where?  I had no clue then nor now.  A week without TV hasn’t killed me but there were a few shows I had wanted to watch.

And now it’s time once again, ladies and gentlemen, for “Ha! Ha! Ha!”  I just don’t have a clue.  Humbling life is, wouldn’t you say?  May I ever smile at all the “not knowing” in my life.

Hand Dryers

Sometimes objects out there in the world have a lot to say to me.  When I go into a washroom, I make sure that I use soap.  I also want to have my hands dry when I walk out the door.

Years ago, my office was at Catholic Central High School in London.  I’d do my phone calls and paperwork there, and then zoom off to all sorts of schools to see low vision kids.  The stress of the job often overwhelmed me.  I was just going so fast.  A washroom was right next door, and I’d sometimes fly out of there with hands dripping.  It took me maybe two years to figure out that my bathroom behaviour was a symbol of what was “off” in my life.

One day, I decided to wait until my hands were completely dry.  That was a trick, since the CCH hand dryers were definitely underpowered.  But I was determined.  I rubbed and waited and then rubbed some more, turned the dryer back on a few times, and felt the tension growing in my chest.  What an education.  Having a natural completion of the task seemed wise, but it was so hard to not lean forward into the next moment.

Then what about companions?  I’m in a restaurant washroom rubbing away but another fellow is washing his hands at the sink.  He’ll need the dryer in seconds!  And my hands are still wet.  What discipline it takes to finish the job while feeling him standing behind me.  But that’s what I do.  It’s good to feel the pressure, and to hold it gently, realizing that I will still be alive when my friend and I exit.

But some dryers are painfully loud.  Such an assault on my whole being.  I’ve decided that if there are no paper towels, I’ll drip dry.  This seems to defeat my commitment to dry off completely, but really it doesn’t.   What I’m committed to is my well-being, whether that means not subjecting myself to noxious noise or seeing a task to its natural end.  If my heart and soul remain balanced and happy, then they’re available to the next person I meet.

So … thanks, all you manufacturers of hand dryers.  Little do you realize that you’re contributing to my spiritual development.

Giving Books

I’ve worried occasionally about how I’m going to give out 500 copies of the book I’ve written about Jody.  Today eased that concern considerably.

I started this morning at Parkwood Hospital, where Jody worked for 20 years.  There were five or six people I was trying to find, folks who had asked for a copy.  First I met a fellow who had been a colleague of Jody’s years ago, when she worked with veterans at the hospital.  He knew that Jody had died but not that I had written the story of her illness and death.  I sat on an angled stand that showed a map of the fourth floor and wrote some thankful words about him and Jody while he watched my pen move across the page.  I was thrilled to give the book to him and he was so happy to have it.

Within a few minutes, three women were gathered around me.  I felt a wee tiny bit like a rock star.  Two of the women had been looking forward to having Jody’s story but the third person was approaching me to let me know that she was going on the Heart and Stroke Big Bike Ride in June.  She was doing it in honour of Jody and another Parkwood occupational therapist who died recently.  I was so happy when I heard her news.  I mentioned that I had written a book about Jody and asked her if she’d like a copy.  She started crying … and kept going.  How very beautiful to be present for her tears.  She cried some more when I handed Jodiette: My Lovely Wife to her.

Later, in the elevator, I told a young woman how much fun I was having, signing Jody’s books.  She told me that she was an occupational therapy student.  “I saw a book in the office, with the photo of a woman on the cover.  Is that your wife?”  “Yes … … Would you like a copy?”  She lowered her head, paused, and said “yes”.  Such lovely shyness.  I sat with her for a few minutes in the cafeteria and wrote, “May you serve your patients with love, as Jody did.”

Next I drove over to one of the schools where I assisted visually impaired kids until I retired last June.  More inscriptions, more signings, and the chance to sit with a class of Grade 2/3 children and tell them about my dear wife.  What a privilege.

Then it was off to another school, where person after person welcomed me in the hallway, and several of them said yes to Jodiette.  The principal was so pleased to have me back in her school.  She had read many of my e-mails about Jody to her husband, and some of my thoughts touched them.  Gosh, that’s what I want in life – to touch people.  In the photocopier room, an old friend of mine said no to the book, and cried as she did so.  It had been too heartrending when she read some of my e-mails.  Not receiving Jody’s book was a good decision for her.

Okay, now it was hometime.  Should I follow suit?  Not quite.  I drove a few miles to The London Free Press.  A writer I had met on the train ten days ago had suggested I leave a copy for a certain columnist there, in hopes that he would review it in the paper.  So I did, attaching a note: “In a perfect world, someone at The Free Press would review my book.  But if that doesn’t happen, at least they can read a love story.”  Who knows what will happen?

One final stop: Chapters on Wellington Road South.  Would a big bookstore put our book on display?  A manager told me to e-mail the guy who’s responsible for consignments.  I’ll do that later tonight.  Who knows what will happen?  Again.  I left a copy for him.

An employee who had heard this conversation told me where I’d find books on Buddhism.  I found what looked like a good one and sat down on a chair to do some page flipping.  Okay, done deal.  I walked over to the till and there was my navigator friend.  As I paid for How To Wake Up, he wished me good luck with the consignment and said he’d buy a copy.  “How about if I give you one right now?”  (Pause.  “No, no.”  Smile.  “Well, okay.”)  So I did.

As I was heading towards the entrance, I glanced over to a young female employee who had also been there for the original conversation.  She was sitting at a desk, reading a book.  A familiar-looking book.  One with a beautiful woman on the cover … my Jodiette.  She smiled and said, “This is good.  I’m going to buy one when we display them.”

(Now’s the time for Copy and Paste.)

“How about if I give you one right now?”  (Pause.  “No, no.”  Smile.  “Well, okay.”)  So I did.

The world is a wonder.

A Circle of Drums

Yesterday was sunny and warm in London … such a blessing.  I strolled into Victoria Park – ten acres of green grass and mature trees – and sat on a bench.  Just me and the birds, except for that group of people over there.  Actually a circle of folks sitting on the grass, most of them with a drum on their lap.  Even from a hundred yards away, the sound was hypnotic.  The rhythms moved deep within me.  I closed my eyes and opened my heart.

Then I looked more carefully at these people, about twenty of them, mostly young adults with a few kids sprinkled in.  Two of the women who weren’t drumming stood and danced in their long patterned skirts.  One of them picked up a hula hoop and whirled it around.

I was transported back to the 1970’s, to the Mariposa Folk Festival on Toronto Island.  Lots of gentle movement there too.  Friendly faces.  Big smiles.  No problem, man.  In Victoria Park, the sun was falling between the trees, illuminating those flowing skirts and drumming hands.  I smiled.  How about if the whole world has a go with a drum on its lap?  We’d let the being emerge and the doing fade into the distance.

I closed my eyes again and began meditating.  The beat was strong, but over the minutes it lessened … and eventually stopped.  Excited voices for a bit.  And finally silence except for the breeze and the birdies.  Then I opened my eyes.  My friends were gone.  There was sadness in me.  May the good times never end.  But they do, of course, and that’s just the way life is.  Still, the beat goes on in the space where it had been.  The circle in the grass a hundred yards away still holds the joy of an hour before.  May I sense similar reminders of past glories as I walk through the day.

Turner Brown

Back in the 1990’s, Jody and I bought a light brown stuffed bear, about 18 inches tall.  Jody named him Turner Brown.  He has sat in our bedroom for many years.  After Jody died, I got closer to Turner.  I’m sad to admit that the two of us had often gone weeks between our chats.  No longer, though.  Turner and I talk every day, just like Jody and I do.

A few weeks ago, I went on a 9-day meditation retreat in Massachusetts.  More recently, I spent four days in Belleville.  There was no question each time … Turner Brown was coming with me.  I packed my suitcase, carefully placing my friend on his back on top of the clothes, and shut the fabric cover.  I prayed that Turner could breathe okay.  It turns out that he was fine.  There was a little bump pressing out from the suitcase.  I don’t think anybody noticed.

In my room in Barre, Turner sat on a chair.  In Belleville, I created a place of honour for him on a chest-of-drawers.  In our bedroom, it’s a chair again.  Every morning, I sit in front of Turner and make eye contact.  He seems comfortable with that.  I put my hand on his fuzzy head and say, “Turner Brown … … All beings everywhere.”  And I think of all of us, how fragile we are, how we need love.  Then I take my right hand and draw the outside of my fingers down his left cheek.  It’s one of my favourite gestures.  He gets it.  I hope all people do.

Speaking

I woke up yesterday morning and opened the pages of The London Free Press, our local paper.  There was an article about Art Boon, a 90-year-old World War II veteran who had participated in the liberation of Holland.  For all these years the Dutch people have revered Canadian troops for giving them their freedom.

Art has been invited to participate in the 70th anniversary of this momentous event and he wants his son Rick, an elementary school teacher in Stratford, Ontario, to accompany him, to share in the celebration and also assist with Art’s physical needs.

Rick’s school board has turned down his request for a 6-day unpaid leave.  And the media storm has stretched across Canada.  The article mentioned that there would be a town hall meeting on Thursday evening in Stratford to discuss the situation and possible solutions.  I put down the paper and realized … I’m going.  It felt right.  It also felt strange.  I have never been very political.  But Art and his fellow veterans need to be honoured and to be allowed to stand beside their family members in Holland.

I arrived in Stratford and was advised to go to Bentley’s Restaurant for a good burger.  I sat at the bar, beside a fellow who was on the edge of being drunk.  Also, he appeared to have a memory problem, as he told me over and over again about working in a plastics factory in the 1970’s.  But I enjoyed his company.  I paid attention to him.  I wonder how many people do that.  What I was doing was nothing special, just honouring a fellow human being.

Chairs were set up in a large room at Stratford’s City Hall.  On the stage, eight people took turns speaking: Art, a veteran of Bosnia and Afghanistan tours of duty, two representatives of the school board, an historian, a lawyer, a professional singer who lives in Stratford, and the chairman.  We also heard from a 16-year-old student and the mother of one of Rick Boon’s students.  I thought they all spoke well, with great sincerity and respect.  It’s so tempting to look at this issue as “I’m right.  You’re wrong,” but that’s not it.

I knew halfway through the proceedings that I would speak when the audience members were invited to do so.  It was a natural sureness.  No tension.  Later, I stood in a line at the microphone, waiting for my turn.  Now I was nervous, but I was fine with that.  Long ago, I learned that the best public speeches are real.  They don’t need to be polished, “professional”.  They just need to come from the heart.

My turn.  In the past I’ve often obsessed about how far my mouth should be from the microphone.  Just a wee bit of obsession last night.  Here’s approximately what I said:

“My name is Bruce Kerr.  I live in Union, Ontario.  I don’t really have an affiliation.  I read about this meeting in this morning’s London Free Press, and I wanted to come.

There are two perspectives here, and I think that they’re both valid.  However, one perspective can be “senior” to the other one – more valuable.  I’m a retired teacher.  I know something about collective agreements and I’m sure that working with them is difficult for school board members.  I know that with my former board, the phrase “exceptional circumstances” showed up in our agreements.  The other perspective focuses on the incredible gift that the Canadian troops gave to the Dutch people, and the value of father and son celebrating that together, and celebrating their love for each other.  Also I understand that Rick assists with some of Art’s physical needs.  I think this perspective is more valuable.

And I have a question: Concerning this issue, what are Rick Boon’s students learning?”

It was a rhetorical question.  I sat down.

I’m glad I spoke.  No fanfare.  No reporter asking me afterwards for further comment.  Just a natural speaking.  I said hi to a couple of people, walked out the door, got in my car Hugo, and drove home.

The Musicians of Orchestra London

I went to a concert tonight – 25 musicians playing classical music brilliantly in an old church with a wraparound balcony.  Up until a few months ago, these folks were the core of Orchestra London.  Then city council cut their funding and now the orchestra is virtually bankrupt.  How sad that our city of 350,000 no longer has funded classical music.

These players have a motto: “We Play On.”  And they most certainly do.  When we gave them a prolonged standing ovation at the end of the evening, there were tears in my eyes, and in those of several musicians.  Plus smiles all around.  We lightened their hearts, I do believe.

I sat in the third row, right in the centre, and I saw wondrous things.  The concertmaster (that is the violinist who sits close to the conductor and plays lots of solos) was a ball of passion.  He rocked forward and back.  He closed his eyes.  His notes, full of vibrato, were wondrous to behold.  At times, it looked like he was kissing someone.  At others, he seemed to be making love to his instrument.  The flautist was just as expressive.  Her head would dip and sway as she played her solo line.  And her long silver flute, usually held horizontally, would dip and sway as well.  It was all a dance.

The violinist closest to me had the most expressive eyes.  I was behind her and to the left so I could see her eyelashes move.  She would glance at her music, and then her eyelashes would rise as she looked at the conductor, keeping to the beat of his baton.  It was lovely to see.

I played cello from Grade 6 till Grade 13.  Why, oh why, did I give it up?  Tonight I watched the cello section intently.  When the cellist dips and sways, it’s a big instrument that moves around.

All these heads in motion.  All these eyes closing and opening again.  I couldn’t think of another profession where such expression is normal.  The average teacher doesn’t move like that.  Nor doctors, executives or plumbers.  It must be so cool.

We heard pieces from Mozart (composed when he was 17!), Wagner, Bartok and Haydn – different styles but the passion remained.  At one point, one of the musicians spoke to the audience.  She talked about classical music being “transformational”, beyond words.  Yes.  I was transported tonight to a land of tone and movement.  I’m glad I was there.