Category Archives: Uncategorized

Who Is Bruce Kerr?

I Googled myself yesterday, but sadly I didn’t exist, at least not within the first 20 pages of “Bruce Kerr” listings.  Oh well.  I’m pretty sure that I do exist.  Guess you’ll have to take my word for it.

I did, however, find many versions of me on the Internet.  So many different lives.  Occasionally, I had pangs of jealousy, but really not much.  I like my rendition of the BK melody.

Here are some folks worth meeting:

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Bringing more than 20 years of executive-level experience to his role as SVP & President, Bruce applies his expertise in customer management, analytics, loyalty marketing and international markets to build successful corporate and brand partnerships.

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Bruce Kerr has been a familiar face of Australian film, television and theatre for more than thirty-five years.  His film credits include The Man From Snowy River and Compo (1989 AFI Awards entry).  He has appeared in almost every major Australian television drama including Blue Heelers, Corelli, Neighbours, Prisoner, The Sullivans, Cop Shop and Homicide, and the miniseries The Anzacs and I Can Jump Puddles.  Bruce has also worked extensively in theatre and radio serials.

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Whether it is the unique light of a winter sunrise across a frozen Midwest pond, the color of a fall leaf against a cobalt sky or the inner workings of the atom, all are subjects for Bruce Kerr’s keen eye.  He has been designing, painting or drawing for most of his life.

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Loose Bruce Kerr is a songwriter, performer, and music producer living in Northern California.  A native of Waukesha, Wisconsin, Bruce took 20 years off from his legal career to tour the country and the Caribbean, performing as a solo, in a duo with Steve Hoeft, or in his band in New England, “Spud City.”

Following that 20 year span, Bruce resumed his legal career and now is a lawyer working for Oracle in Silicon Valley.  His songs & videos can be heard & viewed on YouTube and here on loosebrucekerr.com.

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Bruce Kerr, of Monewden, near Framlingham, one of 2,000 UK growers, produces early crops for processing and loose skin Maris Peer for supermarkets on soils ranging from sandy to heavy clay.  He says the council’s research work is important to his business and others in the region.

“Potatoes are an extremely valuable crop to our region,” he said.  “The industry is a large employer locally, so there’s great importance to the wider economy in having a robust and sustainable industry producing potatoes.”

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Bruce joined the ambulance service in 1972 before working with ARHT, firstly as a rostered ambulance service paramedic in 1993 and then permanently in 1997.  He has participated in over two thousand ARHT rescues and was recognised for this achievement in 2010.

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Bruce was a humble man who would always lend a helping hand whenever he could.  He was very proud of the students he had taught and in turn they openly expressed he was a great role model.  He was a loving husband and father who will be greatly missed.

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 Who, me?

Acting – Part 2

Lesley is the woman who’s leading the beginning actors workshop on March 21.  She mentioned how scared most people are to get on stage.  They’ll start off with set building or being a backstage hand.  Hmm.  Not me.  I told her I want to act.

The workshop will include the opportunity to throw a teenaged tantrum.  Yes!  I can do that.  In real life, I have very little antagonism left in me, but socking it to my parents for pretend sounds like so much fun.

Decades ago, I took a personal development course in Vancouver.  One of the exercises was to share these words with another participant:

Don’t you ever … ever … ever … let me catch you
Brushing that dog’s teeth
With my toothbrush!

Back then, in my 30’s, I struggled.  I had learned to be polite, “nice”.  Before I got to the point of really blasting my partner, the instructor sure blasted me.  “C’mon, Bruce.  Give me all you’ve got!”  What an adventure.  So I’m definitely looking forward to telling mom and dad where to go.

I’m drawn to the third play of next season’s playbill at the Princess Avenue Playhouse – Jake’s Women.  The cast is one guy and seven girls.  The small voice inside says “What chance do you have to get the one and only male part?  You haven’t acted for 39 years.”  But there’s another speaker who wants me to go for it.  Here’s a synopsis of the play:

“Jake, a novelist who is more successful with fiction that with life, faces a marital crisis by daydreaming about the women in his life.  The wildly comic and sometimes moving flashbacks played in his mind are interrupted by visitations from actual females.  Jake’s women include a revered first wife who was killed years earlier in an accident, his daughter who is recalled as a child but is now a young woman, his boisterous and bossy sister, an opinionated analyst, his current wife who is leaving Jake for another man, and a prospective third wife.”

Okay, I like this.  Not being an obsessive-type person, I won’t tell you that I’ve ordered the script from Amazon (delivery on Friday, March 6!) plus the movie that was adapted from it, starring Alan Alda (delivery by March 23!).  Oh, Bruce.  Such a silly goose.

Ya gotta laugh at us human beings.  So strange.  And we’ll see what plops into my lap as I travel on.

Sick

This was to be the evening when I told you about my acting possibilities down the road.  I had lots of say but I’m too weak.  I woke up this morning with a deep cough, wracking myself in a high-pitched squeal as I tried to get the mucus up.  Once, I was having trouble breathing.  I was scared.  In the summer of 2013, Jody had continual pneumonia symptoms.  It turned out that it wasn’t an infection.  It was cancer.

In Emergency today, the doctor told me I don’t have pneumonia … just bronchitis.  No sign of cancer.  Thank God.

Tonight it’s all about coughing spasms, chills and fever.  I feel like poop.  But I want to see if I can write anything of value.  It’s fine to say good stuff when I’m well.  This, right now, is the test.

How do I treat people when I’m suffering?  I got some clue about that today at the hospital.  The triage nurse asked me what colour the mucus was, after I had told him.  So let it go, Bruce.  Not important.  I answered him with no editorial comment.

After triage was the registration desk, and then finding a seat in the waiting room.  I had my mask on.  I chose to sit right next to a fellow, rather than two seats down.  Was that being irresponsible?  I don’t think so.  In life, I simply want to move towards people rather than away from them.  Could my presence right next door be a benefit to him?  I say yes.  In any event, my decision came from a good intention – to contribute rather than infect.

Earlier, in the triage seats,  I talked to a woman who had been admitted to the hospital for a few days and then was sent home.  Back again.  We had a good time.  Eventually I was sent to a smaller waiting room, hopefully to see a doctor soon.  And there was the same woman, with two empty seats to her right.  I saw her nudge her coat over, to allow me full space next to her.  Inexplicably to me, I sat down two seats away.  Immediately, I felt the contraction.  Distance is not what I’m up to in life, so I moved over beside her.  That felt good, and right, and what the planet needs.  We talked some more.  And I knew that I had already forgiven myself completely.

A half hour later, I was alone in that room, when a fellow ambled in.  I wanted to make contact, so I said:  “You just missed the hors d’oeuvres.  A woman came by a few minutes ago.”  He smiled.

A few minutes after that, two women dropped their paperwork at the window and took a seat.  “It seems that they’re serving us in alphabetical order.”  Two smiles.  Missions accomplished.

I’m happy, and sick.  Nothing special.  Just me.

 

 

 

Acting – Part 1

I did it a long time ago … once.  In the summer of 1976, I was Snoopy in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.  Gosh, I loved being Snoopy.

I feel every now and then that I’ve gotta bite someone
I know every now and then what I wanna be
A fierce jungle animal crouched on the limb of a tree
I’d stay very, very still till I see a victim come 
I’d wait, knowing very well every second counts 
And then, like the fierce jungle creature I am 
I would pounce!

Pouncing was so much fun.  So was having kids come up to me at the end of the evening, wanting to hang out with Snoopy.  My only real problem with the play was turning Snoopy off afterwards.  I couldn’t do it.  Between performances and for a week or two after the run was done, I was Snoopy.  A bit pathological, perhaps, but I remember not thinking so.  I was just waiting for Suppertime.  Suppertime.  Supp supp suppertime.

Now its 39 years later.  I went to a play at the Princess Avenue Playhouse in St. Thomas two weeks ago, and a found out about a beginning acting workshop to be held all day on Saturday, March 21.  I signed up for it, just like that.  Today there was an “Art Crawl” in town, with 30 or so artists spread over 12 venues.  Back to the playhouse I went, to see photographs and paintings.  Welcoming me at the door, with passport dabber in hand, was Lesley, one of the main cogs in the Elgin Theatre Guild wheel.  Plus she’s the workshop leader.  We talked.  I reminisced about Snoopy, and Lesley told me that life in amateur theatre is like “family”.  With Jody no longer with me physically, I could use a little family.

I blabbed on about the three-month meditation retreat I’m starting in September.  She thought that would be about relationship too.  And she’s right.  I asked about next year’s playbill.  If I was to act again, aiming at the April-May play next year sounded like a good plan.  It’s going to be Calendar Girls.  From Lesley’s description, it sounded okay.

Gosh, who knows?  I’d be auditioning, but would I get a part?  The future is such a mystery.  On a whim, I asked about the February, 2016 production.  It’s to be Jake’s Women by Neil Simon, the story of an agonized writer who gets visited by lots of women from his life, past and present.

“Lesley, when would rehearsals for that play start?”

“Right after Christmas.”

“Oh.”  I get back from my long retreat around December 10.

More reflections on my future tomorrow.

Handwriting

I’ve often wondered about my handwriting and what it says about me.  I look back at some of my high school textbooks, and the notes I made in the margins.  Everything is sharp angles, sort of tortured-looking.  I remember being pretty happy as a teenager, except when it came to acne.  Boy, I had a case of it!  Is that what all those straight and fractured lines were about?

As an intinerant teacher of visually impaired students, at least before I had grown a laptop on my fingertips, I walked around countless classrooms with an 8.5 x 11″ lined pad of paper as my weapon of choice.  Okay, not a weapon, but I sure scribbled like a madman.  Reams of paper, with the script unintelligible to others, and sometimes to me.  I created frantic slashes of ink, afraid to miss a single salient point about the Grade 5 kid with cataracts.  Somehow, I later wrote reasonably cogent reports about said children.

Another venue for my pen-like expressions were, and still are, 3 x 5″ index cards, on which I have purported to record the collective wisdom of mankind, as revealed in a ton of spiritual and philosophic books.  Sitting in my man chair, relaxing through chapter after chapter, I knew there’s no hurry, so I expected that my handwriting would flow like the blessings of the universe.  Nope.  Instead, another type of penmanship showed up.

Despite the peace which I’ve usually felt as I’ve contemplated thoughts for the ages, my hand does not follow suit.  Too often, I cross t’s and dot i’s before the whole word has been revealed.  I have trouble with the “ng” combo at the end of words.  Recording those letters should be a graceful experience.  Instead, my hand stutters as I try to make the end of the “n” reach towards the top of the “g”.  My pen dives down rather than up, in a spasm of jerkiness.

As I near the right end of the card, I try to cram more words in, while I could just leave lots of space as I wander onto the next line.  The same when I’m nearing the end of the whole card.  More!  More!  Stuff it in.  How very silly, and worrisome, to me.  What kind of spiritual path am I on if I can’t let go with a pen in my hand?

I decided yesterday not to worry about the beauty of my script.  “Just go slow, Bruce, and see where that takes you.  Feel the essence of pen peace.”  But then I glimpse the possibility that any flow or non-flow of my writing is fine.  Let it all be there.  Be a “jerk” if that’s what your hand leads you to.  So I’ve chosen to do exactly that.  It’s all groovy, even though I have visions of a highly evolved soul and hand working in blissful tandem.  Maybe next lifetime.

Bookish Moments

11:30 am today

I got home from a chiropractic appointment to find a rectangular object wrapped in corrugated cardboard sitting on the dining room table.  My friend Neal had received it from a UPS delivery guy.  The proof of Jody’s book has arrived.  And I ran away … to the next room.  “First, I need to write a blog post about last night’s Bryan Adams concert.”  As I started tapping the keys, fear descended in the moments between the writing.  “What if it doesn’t look good?  Jody’s photo on the front cover and the painting of the tree on the back – what if they’re blurry?  What if the print on the back of the page shows through the one I’m looking at?  What if the blacks aren’t really black?  What if there are typos?  Arghh!”

1:00 pm

The post about Bryan Adams is done and published.  I like it.  What to do now?  Well, stay out of the dining room.  It’s too scary to open the package and really look.  Have some lunch.  Read the paper.  So I did.  And the hot tub repair guy is coming at 2:00.  Have to talk to him.

2:15 pm

Hadn’t you better start the post about Jody’s book, Bruce?  Okay, I’ll do that.  So I’ve just written what you see above.  And discussed tub problems.

2:38 pm

My repair friend just left.  I’ve brought the cardboard rectangle to my man chair, accompanied by an Exacto knife.  Okay, that’s progress.  Shouldn’t you read what’s on the outside?  Yes, of course.  It says that the book itself only weighs one pound.  Shouldn’t it be more?  And the box looks pretty skinny.  It was supposed to be 193 pages.  The whole thing feels pretty light.  (Sigh)

Oh my goodness, I just started taking the plastic cover off the cardboard.  Then I stopped.  C’mon, Bruce.  Get the plastic off.  (Doing so)  All right.  I’ve removed a pouch with folded sheets of paper inside – “Shipping Documentation”.  Better read that.  (Reading)

Oh, look.  Blurb sent it “UPS Expedited”, as in fast.  It was shipped from Pennsylvania on February 23, and it’s here with me on February 25.  Awesomely fast.  Okay, that’s enough reading .. of the sheets, I mean.  (Sigh)

2:50 pm

(Box in hand)  Open it, Bruce!   But just peek at the front cover.  (Opening)  Oh my God!  First view is of the white spine, with black print.  It says “Jodiette:  My Lovely Wife” on the left end, and “Bruce Kerr” on the right.  That’s me!  Breathe, Bruce, breathe.  (Opening the cardboard flaps)

2:55 pm

Jody’s eyes!  So beautiful.  Looking deeply into mine, and into those of future readers.  Oh, loved wife … you’re so pretty.  (Crying)  The photo isn’t quite as sharp as I would have liked it, but such are the limits of jpeg files, I guess.  My wife shines.  Ah … the front cover is gorgeous.

And the back?  (Flip)  Oh my God again.  Kym Brundritt’s painting of a “Cosmic Tree” just glows.  It fills the space with love.  But … its background is orange, without the vibrant yellow of the original.  Maybe Blurb can shift the colour.  But even if they can’t, it’s lovely.  Thank you, Kym.

3:08 pm

Off to the Blurb website to see the photo of the painting that I submitted.  It has more yellow than orange.  I’ll keep my toes crossed that this can be fixed.  Still afraid to look at the print on the pages … Go for it, guy!  Okay.

Oh, the blacks are beautifully black.  And the Constantia font looks so good.  The white paper isn’t as thick as I’d hoped, so I can see the print on the back of each sheet some.  But that’s okay.  It’s only a bit distracting.  Oh, Jody.  It’s our book and it’s great!  Oh, loved one.  May our story reach waiting eyes.

And now I’m going to read the entire book, to see if there are any glitches.  It’s 3:23.  See you later.

7:30 pm

Well, I didn’t read the whole book.  After all, I had proofread it twice before uploading it, so I know we’re good with spelling and grammar.  I did repeat a title from one page to the next, so Blurbites can fix that.  Also, the print is nicely level at the top of each page but a bit tilted at the bottom.  Go, Blurb, go.

I went out to supper at Braxton’s, a St. Thomas roadhouse, and showed Jody’s book to Leslie, a friend of mine who’s a server there.  She liked it.  Thought the covers were awesome.  Thanks, Leslie.

I read some of the entries before my meal and after.  The book was becoming comfy in my hands, rather than the suspected bomb I worried about when it arrived.  An old friend.  Jody talking to me.  Oh, my dear.  It’s you and me, loved one.

What a precious volume I hold.  May it reach far into people’s lives.

Lap Dance

Jody and I went to hear Bryan Adams at London’s Budweiser Gardens last night.  My dear wife was deep within my heart as I walked in and sat down.

Jody loved, and loves, Bryan.  As “Heaven” rolled over us, I realized that my darling girl was sitting on my lap.  I reached around and held her thighs, just above the knee.  My wife and me.

And love is all that I need
And I found it there in your heart
It isn’t too hard to see
We’re in heaven

Then we were rocking to one of our favourites – “Summer of ’69”.  Jody’s hands were way up high, punching the air.  Oh, that smile!  And how we loved to dance.

Standin’ on your mama’s porch
You told me that it’d last forever
Oh, and when you held my hand
I knew that it was now or never

But Jody was just warming up.  Bryan found a lady in the audience who was willing to dance in the spotlight to “If Ya Wanna Be Bad, Ya Gotta Be Good”.  And my wife was just as nasty as she turned to me, snarling and pointing to my chest.  Oh my.

I’ll give you what you want, boy, but let’s make it understood
If ya wanna be bad, ya gotta be good

And more of the same with “The Only Thing That Looks Good On Me Is You”. Go, Jodiette!

The only thing I want
The only I need
The only thing I choose
The only thing that looks good on me … is you!

For many years, Jody caressed me with a Bryan Adams song.  The title says it all – “Everything I Do (I Do It For You)”.  And she did.  Jody loved me so much.  Bryan started.  I held my hands over my heart and cried.

Look into your heart, you will find
There’s nothin’ there to hide
Take me as I am, take my life
I would give it all, I would sacrifice

Near the end of the concert, as the anthem “Straight From The Heart” began, Jody’s hands were flying, palms forward.  I placed my hands over hers, and our arms swayed to the music.  Just the two of us.

Give it to me straight from the heart
Tell me we can make another start
You know I’ll never go
As long as I know
It’s comin’ straight from the heart

May there be another start for us, Jodiette, just beyond the horizon.  I love you.

Ah, For Just One Time

I went a tribute concert last night for Stan Rogers, a Canadian singer-songwriter who died from smoke inhalation on a plane in 1983.  As the brochure said, “Stan Rogers touched the lives of countless people.”

Stan wrote about ordinary Canadians … fishermen, farmers, factory workers, lovers, explorers, displaced East coasters who went west to work in oil refineries.  He told the story of an aging housewife, gazing at the wrinkles in her mirror but dreaming of “Friday at the Legion when she’s dancing with her man”.

Five passionate musicians stood in front of me, recreating Stan’s stories with their mouths and fingers.  And we in London’s Aeolian Hall responded with our voices held high, blasting out the choruses so the walls trembled.

Ah, for just one time I would take the Northwest Passage
To find the hand of Franklin reaching for the Beaufort Sea
Tracing one warm line through a land so wide and savage
And make a Northwest Passage to the sea

And then it was over.  Time to leave.  Or perhaps not just yet.  Do I say hi to the performers or let them have their space?  “Be a decent person, Bruce.”  But really, what does that mean?  As Jack singer and guitarist walked off the stage and started down the aisle where I stood, I knew this moment’s version of decency.  I smiled.  He smiled.  I shook his hand.  “I enjoyed your music.”  Contact, of the most lovely kind.

Further down the aisle, Brad singer and guitarist was talking to an audience member.  To brush past or to linger?  I’m sure you know.  Brad had enchanted me with his singing of one of Stan’s lesser known tunes – “White Squall”.

But I tell these kids a hundred times “Don’t take the Lakes for granted
They go from calm to a hundred knots so fast they seem enchanted”
But tonight some red-eyed Wiarton girl lies staring at the wall
And her lover’s gone into a white squall

“I loved your singing, especially on ‘White Squall’.  Thank you.”  Two smiles.

The concert hall was three flights of stairs up from the street.  A narrow stairway.  So it was a very slow process having all of us move towards the outside world.  Just before I reached the top of the stairs, I saw a little room on the right, with a snack bar.  Leaning against the counter was Paul singer and guitarist, waiting to be served.  There was no thought, just an abrupt change of direction.

Bruce:  “Thank you for your music.”

(Smile in return)

Paul:  “It’s Stan’s music.”

Bruce:  “Yes, but really it belongs to all of us.”

(Nod)

Down the stairs.  Off into the night.  Happy.

Me or You?

I went to see a movie yesterday – Two Days, One Night.  It hit me hard.  The story is about Sandra, one of 17 employees at a small factory.  She is returning to work after a period of depression, and I guess her job performance isn’t back up to snuff yet.  The boss met with the other 16 people and held a vote: Lay Sandra off and give the 16 a bonus of about 1000 Euros each or keep Sandra and forget the bonus.  The result?  14-2 in favour of the money.  At closing time on Friday, Sandra and her friend meet with the boss and convince him to hold another vote on Monday morning.  Sandra has the weekend to approach each of her fellow employees and ask them to vote to keep her on.

This is life in all its rawness, and realness.  How do you compare the value of someone losing her job (with the family likely having to go on welfare), with the stories of many other people who are just getting by?

One family saving for their kids’ education, a second one wanting a new patio, a husband and wife at war about “the right thing to do”, a man in tears as Sandra approaches him, horribly guilty about having voted for the bonus … it’s all on the screen.  Plus Sandra’s decency – her tears when someone says they’ll vote for her on Monday, and her gracious “I understand” when another person says they need the money.  And then there’s her courage, knocking on door after door, not knowing whether she’ll be hugged, hit or ignored.  Such grace.

I sat in the theatre watching the largeness and smallness of human beings.  All part of the tapestry.  All to be honoured.  And yet … may we be large.

 

Categories – Part 2

Given gibberish in old WordStar files, to the rescue came Martin, my computer guy.  He recovered the contents, converting the files to Word and placing them on my laptop hard drive.  Yay!  As well as the phrases and sentences, the files are full of random symbols.  I’ll have some major editing to do.  That’s okay.

So … all those full categories were from the 1980’s.  Thirty years later, in addition, I have five inches of piled white 3 x 5″ index cards, crammed with quotes, plus 464 pages of thoughts I’ve inputted into Word.  All of this random.

“What do you want to do, Bruce?”  And the answer comes swiftly:  “Before I die, I want to put all these quotations into categories, adding and subtracting subjects as a reflection of me as a 70-, 80- or 90-year-old, rather than the WordStar youngster of 35 that I was in the era of big blue binders.  I want to publish the results through Blurb and somehow get the books into the hands and hearts of people who will appreciate them.”

So there.

How many pages am I talking about here?  The one binder that I still have is 248 pages.  So double that to include the resurrected contents of the missing binder … 496.  Add the 464 pages in Word, and then whatever five inches of index cards would amount to – 200 pages?  So … drum roll please … that comes to 1160.  The maximum number of pages that Blurb allows for their trade books is 480.  Therefore to do all this would take three volumes of “Transformational Subjects”, averaging say 400 pages.  Whew!

A few questions seem to be poking out through the vines of my mind:

1.  Who would I give these books to?  How would I find folks who’d like to read about one bloke’s take on life?

2.  For close on forty years, I’ve plucked quotations from books and articles without writing down who the author is.  So if I self-publish this potpourri of wise thoughts, am I going to have hundreds of people suing me for using their words without permission?  (Wow, that sure sounds paranoid.  Or maybe true.)

3.  Do I really want to spend a large portion of the next five years pulling all this material together, arranging it to my liking, designing the books and publishing them?

4.  If I don’t share these perspectives on life with whomever wants to hear them, why exactly have I been poring over index cards for four decades?  Have I done all this just so I can get a little more evolved?  I don’t like that.  I see my job as being a contribution to people near and far.  How can I keep all this stuff hidden?

Time to sit quietly, Bruce, and think.

…

I want to publish these ideas
I’m willing to be sued
I want to leave something behind when I die

Do it, Bruce